


Me, You and the Moon

by lunalovegoodufunkylesbian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Ginny Weasley, Bisexual Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Bullying, Camping, Coming Out, Dark Magic, Depressed Harry, Depressed Harry Potter, Depression, Desi Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gay Draco Malfoy, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Healing, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Lesbian Luna Lovegood, Letters, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of violence/character death but it's pretty vague, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Nerd Draco Malfoy, On the Run, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Plotty, Potions, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Roommates, Running Away, Sad Draco Malfoy, Sad Harry Potter, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Severus Snape Bashing, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Swearing, Trauma, draco leaves objects lying around, harry picks them up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 89,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22519270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunalovegoodufunkylesbian/pseuds/lunalovegoodufunkylesbian
Summary: Harry isn't functioning quite right after the Battle of Hogwarts. Shockingly, neither is Draco. Now they're back for Eighth year against their will, sharing a dorm room. Letter by letter, object by object, Harry begins to discover the vulnerable and extremely real boy under that lifelong facade of Draco Malfoy, sole heir to the Malfoy name. Will the decisions that follow mend their broken parts, or shatter them completely?A story about healing, forgiveness and the complexities of life.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 193
Kudos: 336





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i cant believe im writing this but inspiration struck me at 1am so here we are. i will try and update as regularly as i can- i already have a plot planned out so shouldnt be too hard. :) please be fairly nice, criticise me if you must but either way leave me something xox i fuel off of validation. btw there will be dumbledore and snape bashing in this fic. i dont stan their behaviour

Harry sits in the living room of Grimmauld Place, alone, empty and drinking a cup of tea. The rain trickles faintly down the window pane next to him, the noise of it soothing the headache that was growing with the evening. His tea is a dark brown, not quite comparable to burnt toast but somewhere close, he thinks- builders, as the Muggles call it.

In the corner of the room, a clock ticks with irritating persistence, despite the fact that Harry doesn’t even recall owning one. Maybe Sirius’ old house has had a change of heart. Maybe it is giving him presents now, Harry thinks bitterly, as he reflects upon all the grief he has endured at the hands of the Black’s ancestral home. Not only a week prior had the middle stair evaporated under his feet, mid-step, causing him to fall and adding another hole to the sizeable collection steadily increasing on his jeans. He burrows his feet in the fluffy socks that Hermione had gifted him for his birthday, because if his own home is going to mess with his mind, he can at least feel insane in the comfort of woolen _Star Wars_ socks.

__He taps his fingers against his mug, enjoying the reminder that he can move. For the last few months, Harry has felt like he has come to a halt. Not just his life and the events within it, but he himself. He has lost the ability to say ‘yes’ to plans definitely; the guarantee that he can function on any given day has faded. Like a machine gathering rust, Harry is beginning to feel like has more in common with the objects in his house than with the people in his life._ _

__Some days, he is able to make it to nearby Muggle London and push through cake in a cafe with Ron and Hermione, wary of the looks both they and passing wizards send him. Those are becoming more and more sparse as the year progresses. Occasionally he manages a trip to the Burrow, where he spends all evening choking in their mourning and strangled in the hugs that Molly forces upon him, covering her shame at just wanting her _real son_ back. It’s these that send Harry into panic everytime Ron brings it up. Mostly he just sits in his living room, drinking tea that Kreacher makes for him and wishing oh so desperately that he could comprehend something more than the Chinese takeaway menu without drowning in overwhelming and relentless waves of _this is too much_.__

______Sinking further into the sofa, Harry prays to whichever higher power is sitting in the heavens that nobody should come knocking until his headache, at the very least, passes. Or preferably until whatever this is- this _nothingness_ \- goes with it. A wasted wish, he supposes. Hermione wouldn’t allow it- at least, he doesn’t think she would. He has forgotten how long it has been since she had last paraded through his house with a flare of big hair and the scent of her earl grey cologne, demanding he “Sort himself out, Harry Potter, or God help you.” before concernedly straightening out his jumper. Merlin knows whether she actually lies awake at night fretting over the state of his fridge, as Ron dutily reports she does.___ _ _ _

________It is of course at this exact moment that the doorbell rings, loud, shrill and obnoxious, as if the completely silent house doesn’t hear even the quietest of noises. Luckily for the visitor, or perhaps unluckily, depending on how one looks at it, this appears to be one of Harry’s good days. As he disjointedly shuffles his legs off of the sofa, he cannot help but feel impressed. However, this is followed quickly by shame, an unwelcome shadow, at his low standards._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________At the door, Ron stands, wriggling his toes and looking as disgruntled as Harry feels. His ginger hair is matted against his forehead, darkened and abused by the weather. As Harry takes a moment to breathe in and consider the weight that comes with company, he sees in the corner of his vision a raindrop plop onto Ron’s long and freckled nose._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Hey, Harry.” Ron says, gently shoving him aside. He kicks off his shoes, hitting the skirting board in a manner that would have had Aunt Walburga screaming like a banshee, had Harry not finally blasted her off of the wall. He almost wants to piece her back from the twelve dozen splinters she shattered into, just to elicit a reaction. Who knows, it might even make him laugh, and wouldn’t that be something. The smell of rainwater clings to Ron as he blunders down the hallway._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Hey,” Harry replies, following Ron into the living room and glaring with malice at the pizza box on the table, which has apparently not miraculously cleared itself up. Like the good friend he is, Ron chooses to ignore, or perhaps genuinely doesn’t notice, the chaos around him. They both sit down on the sofa and for a moment, everything is peaceful. The rain pelts a little harder on the glass and it’s just two best friends on a stormy day. In another life, maybe they would chat mindlessly about the party that they had both got pissed at last night, and perhaps Harry would still be with Ginny rather than achingly single. Reality hits and its them again: two best friends, traumatised, suffering and still at war with everything._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________After a stagnant pause, in which the ticking of the clock seems to chime like deafening church bells in Harry’s mind, Ron settles his blue eyes on him. If Harry could pinpoint the instance in which everything would change, it would doubtlessly be now. He doesn’t have to be a seer to recognise the pain in Ron’s gaze, flickering like a slowly burning flame._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Before Ron could even open his mouth, Harry inches towards the doorway, panic rising inside of him. “Ron, please, if you’re about to ask me whether I want to come and live at the Burrow again, then the answer is no,” he runs a hand through his hair distressingly, feeling the length he has accidentally let it grow to, “I know your mum means well, but it feels like I’m invading. And I know you don’t like the idea either.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It’s an ongoing argument, but Harry knows that he is a poor substitute for Fred, and no matter how much the Weasley’s insist that that is not how they see the matter, he doesn’t want to attempt to fill the hole that has been left, gaping open and refusing to close. And he suspects they would come to resent him too, for not being what they need._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“It’s not that. It’s Hogwarts, mate.” Ron says with a regretful groan. The small flutter of relief at the dismissal of changing Harry’s living situation disintegrates with the mention of the place Harry had once thought of as home._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“What? What about it?” asks Harry frantically, his mind already beginning to shutdown. Ron moves a bit closer, and the sight of his outreached hand pulls the trigger. Images of dead bodies, swimming in filth and despair, flash through Harry’s head. They are lit bloody red and sickly green from the lights of spells, which are being shot like bullets from foe to foe. In the distance, he hears a blood-curdling cry, and it’s echoed beside him as a sandy-haired fourth year falls to the pulsating stream of an _Avada Kedavra_. As he falls, he makes eye contact with Harry and vomit rises in Harry’s throat. He’s going to be sick. The bile is crawling up his insides, outstretching and digging it’s long claws into his flesh, and he wishes it would just fucking come up _for Merlin’s sake_ , he has a certain Dark Lord to kill. This is too much. All he can see are the eyes of the fourth year. This is too much. _What even was his name?_ This is too much. The life is ripped from his eyes as he stares hopefully, and then blankly, at Harry. This is too much. This is too much. This is too much_______ _

_______________This is too much_.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Harry lets out a choked scream as he pulls out of the torture of his own mind. Ron shakes his shoulders gently, his face torn with confusion and understanding all at once. It’s all Harry can do to not rip himself away from the touch and he feels the vomit in his stomach begin to surface again. Fortunately, Ron seems to comprehend the situation and backs off. Slowly, Harry sits back down from where he had launched into the air. He breathes deeply, but jaggedly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________As Harry closes his eyes, he thanks Merlin that Hermione isn’t here. Ron, the trustily emotionally constipated man that he is, would never force confessions and miserable truths out of his best mate, not without being confronted with facing them himself, and Harry is aware that Ron would rather snog Madam Pince’s wrinkled lips than do that. Or, he at least would never without a bottle of half-drunk Firewhiskey and a game of Exploding Snap to break the tension._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“You alright, Harry?” Ron inquires, in a soft voice. One really has to admire his development. Before the war- before everything- Ron had almost as little emotional empathy as dear old Uncle Vernon. Now, his question treads carefully._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________After another exhale, Harry murmurs “Yeah, fine. Sorry.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“S’fine,” Ron shuffles awkwardly, “But are you sure? You looked a bit peaky back there, mate.” And Harry almost has to laugh at the understatement._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Instead of the outrageously loud cackle he wants to burst out with, but can’t, for his lack of energy and willpower, Harry simply chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, no. It’s all fine.” he repeats. The look on Ron’s face is telling of his doubt at the truth of the statement._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“I’ve got some news,” says Ron, as he pulls a letter out of his pocket. Crumpled at the edges, it’s almost illegible without Harry’s glasses, but he can still make out the Hogwarts stamp bold and red, looking like a pool of blood. “Mcgonagall owled ‘Mione yesterday. Apparently under this new law that Shacklebolt is putting into place, everyone has to get their NEWTs. Unless you’re like, in Azkaban, or something. Like Goyle. But, uh, obviously, we aren’t,” Ron blunders through the words with as much subtlety as the pink of Umbridge’s office. Still, Harry appreciates the effort. “So, um. Yeah...” he trails off, twiddling with his ears as he has always done when he is nervous. The implication of his words dawn on Harry and his internal monologue gives a short, but sweet _oh shit_.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“We have to go back to Hogwarts.” Harry phrases it as a statement, not a question. He doesn’t need an answer from Ron now, he knows with all the fibres of his being what it will be. Inside of him, his heart pounds like a drum. And yet, in this moment, he disconcertingly feels more alive than ever since the Battle, his blood coursing its way through his body in a manner which is very much indicative of _life_. ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________He thinks of this new law, this stupid, godforsaken, completely _ridiculous_ , new law, and he is suddenly blazing with anger. How dare Shacklebolt make him go back? Back to the empty and dilapidated halls of the castle which haunts his every thought, both awake and asleep. Harry had had a sombre conversation with Kingsley in the aftermath of the Death Eater trials. He had noticed the dark bruises seemingly permanent under Harry’s eyes, and they had come to a quiet yet awkward agreement that it would be best for him to not return. Special circumstances would be made for Harry’s induction into Auror training, when the time eventually came. This had been embarrassing at the time, but the staggering sense of relief had almost floored Harry upon his return to Grimmauld Place that evening.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Not that Harry has ever appreciated nor desired special treatment. In fact, the memories of Dumbledore’s ignorant Gryffindor favouritism amongst other things, make him flush with irritation and cause his fists to clench. But he does feel that if ever he was granted a wish, the one where he isn’t forced back into the place of his nightmares would be a good choice to go with._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________The _tick tick tick_ of the invisible clock decides to chime in again and Harry wants to throw his mug at wherever it is hiding. ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Right. Okay.” he says, trying to tune back into the conversation._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Yeah.” Ron plonks his large ginger head in his hands._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“That sucks.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Yeah.” repeats Ron, still not looking at Harry._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“I was just kind of hoping that I wouldn’t have to, you know, go back there. What’s this law anyway?” Harry stares out of the window, watching a Muggle man carrying a tartan-patterned umbrella walk past in blissful oblivion. “Seems like Hogwarts is still out to send me into an early grave.” The man disappears out of sight, and Harry peers down at Ron again, who seems to be hitting his head on the coffee table in time with the satanic sounds of the clock. With all the vigour of an Erumpent, his heart still beats aggressively inside his chest._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Eventually, Ron raises his head from his hands and Harry notices for the first time that he has his own black shadows framing his eyes. Their intensity shocks him for a moment, and his insides curl at the thought that he has been neglecting his best friend’s issues. “Yeah I know. Apparently, Mcgonnagall suggested it, the old cow. I think the number of students coming to Hogwarts went down this year, which makes sense, I guess.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Harry frowned as he processed this information, “So, what? We’re supposed to be examples or something?” The idea of the pair of them leading the first years into the lonesome and echoing corridors, as if they are their _superiors_ , causes a shudder to go down his spine. In his eyes, it would probably help if he could even lead himself to the corner shop for some milk first, before he goes gallivanting off as some Percy Weasley prefect-type. Hermione would probably be a natural at it, at the very least, and that is a small grace.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“Yeah, S’pose,” shrugs Ron, his face painted with annoyance, mirroring Harry’s inner turmoil. “I think if we, as, y’know, the year to proper face Voldemort, went back, then in Mcgonagall's mind, everyone else will follow.” Harry thinks Mcgonagall has a point, but he will still call her barmy when the occasion arises. “There was also something about not being able slack under no circumstances. ‘Mione says she thinks that we need the encouragement anyway, or whatever.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“Right, okay.” says Harry, feeling a sudden wash of tiredness fall over him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________He knows that it is logical. In Muggle England, it is law for students to be in some form of education until they are 18. It makes sense that the same be translated for the wizarding world. However, this doesn’t mean that he can’t throw tantrums until Kingsley lets him remain in his own company, holed up in the dim and dark of a house that hates him. Sod the students, and their parents, who are too scared to enter the castle walls. Privately, Harry feels the exact same way. He wishes he was as brave as they are, being able to vocalise their fears. Harry’s just dwell in his head, buzzing around like the fly that you just can’t quite catch._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Ron slumps back on the sofa, kicking his feet up and reaching for the TV remote. At some point since Harry came into ownership of Grimmauld Place, he installed electricity. Or he hired a specialist to do it. Whatever. Call it nostalgia for his comfortable and most joyous upbringing, if you must. Upon reflection, Harry ponders whether this might be why the house is so aggrieved against him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Like the pureblood he is, however muggle-loving he may be, Ron still struggles with it. For instance, take now, as Harry watches him press the rewind button as a means to turn it on. Baby steps, he guesses. “How the bloody hell do you do this?” Ron irately slams his thumb on several buttons, before finally landing on the jackpot. The TV flickers and the BBC news flashes into existence. “Harry, mate, I think this might be a bit broken”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Harry laughs, an actual _real_ one, and settles down into the dip next to Ron. He reeks of rainwater and the mud drying on his jeans, but it’s soothing, and he realises how much he misses sharing his space with his best friend. ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________For a moment, he is enlivened at the thought of sharing a dorm room with Ron again. Memories of their midnight escapades and stashed Honeydukes sweets float dreamily across his mind, tainted in a wash of childlike excitement, before they are replaced by the roaring blaze of the Fiendfyre. Ron’s frightened face is drenched in the orange of the flames, as he stares up at the tidal wave of fire. On second thought, he’d rather have their erratic TV, mindless chatter and greasy eating habits, all of which are the very foundations of the New and Most Noble House of Potter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________They prod teasingly at the news presenters, and as his heartbeat begins to calm, Harry tries to forget about what is to come._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________\---_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Later that night, after Ron is gone, Harry lets himself cry. The emptiness he has so long felt, the hollowness that has carved itself inside of him, temporarily stops to instead allow an overflowing rush of emotions. He buries his face into the pillow and scrunches his hands in his sheets. The pain of the past, the present and the future knock at his head like unwelcome guests._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Kreacher taps once on his bedroom door, but when Harry’s muffled cries grow a bit louder, he plods away down the hall._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________It’s a while before he can bring himself to stop crying. And when he does, he stares at the ceiling, unable to feel anything but trickles of anxiety. There is a spider weaving a web above him, intricate strings of silk following her as she sweeps in between the boards. She is nothing but a blur to Harry without his glasses, but he has developed the habit of not wearing them. There is nothing much to see when you spend all day in your bed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________His tears cause her to glisten as she works. That’s the life, he thinks. She knows her goal, and just continues to weave throughout the dark of the night._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________For hours, he watches this spider. The sun begins to rise outside, but this only serves to illuminate her handiwork, the web gleaming in the light streaming in from the window. Harry finds himself unable to sleep. Her relentlessness amazes him. It’s perhaps silly that later he would realise it was the persistence of a spider that inspired him to just get up and keep on going, but it’s the truth nonetheless._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________He names her Cindy after much debate, and as he manages to pull his weight out of bed, he whispers his gratitude for the motivation that she has given him. As he butters toast the Kreacher hands him in the kitchen, he acknowledges that like Cindy, he will simply do what needs to be done. If that must include Hogwarts robes and classrooms, then so be it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________At the very least, he no longer has to deal with Snape. And it is at the thought of the former Head of Slytherin that Harry realises something profound. Draco Malfoy was acquitted of all crimes, largely, if not entirely, thanks to Harry’s testimony at his trial._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Draco Malfoy, under law as an underage wizard, will also be returning to Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy, who has plagued Harry’s nightmares since the night after the Battle. Brooms racing through fire, a pointy face staring at his disfigured one, a wand shakily pointing in the direction of Dumbledore’s frail frame._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________________________I’ll just ignore him_ , Harry tells himself. He refuses to get wound up in the company of his enemies. He’s going to be like Cindy: do what you know, put your head down and just get through what is expected of you. Keeping to this idea is the only thing protecting his sanity in the face of the fear that lurks at Hogwarts. _Pull yourself together, Harry,_ he instructs himself, _you’ll be fine_._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________No distractions._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a little filler. harry goes to diagon alley and we meet an important original character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!! hope you enjoy this <3 please leave a comment if you do

Hermione picks Harry up from Grimmauld Place a week later. He thinks that Ron might have warned her of his need for space, since he was pre-empting a much earlier visit. Either way, he is grateful for the chance to process the upcoming year. All things considered, he reckons he has been handling it pretty well, if you can exclude, well, the crying fit. And the second. And the third. Not to mention that he has been dressed in the same clothes for five consecutive days. Recovery is a work in progress, as Hermione has always said.

As she embraces him in the hallway, her earl-grey scented perfume soothes an ache he didn’t even know he had and he releases a long sigh of contentment. When all goes to shit, one can always count on Hermione’s ability to spark a burst of motivation, even if it is brief. He doesn’t think that he would have ever made out of the cave, as he has taken to calling his bedroom in an attempt to force him to leave it, had it not been for her persistence. There is grace and excellence in being the bossiest one in the room, he ponders fondly.

She looks especially beautiful today, he thinks, as he registers her warm smile and eyes which twinkle brightly. Dressed in a light cotton trench coat, with a white blouse that compliments the depth of her dark skin, he wishes that he was deserving of her friendship. She reaches out a hand to him, and they are apparating to the Leaky Cauldron in a whirl of colour. Upon arrival, Harry squeezes Hermione’s fingers, seeking comfort. Every head in the pub twists to stare at Harry, gawking and judging like tourists at a zoo, who are trying to gage how to react to a particularly dangerous snake. Frankly, he’s a little surprised. Not to sound self-centred, but he had anticipated a screeching mass of both reporters, fans, and fundamentally anyone with a desire to use his fame for themselves. Instead, there is an awkward scrape of a chair in the silence, and slowly everyone begins to return to their conversation.

Hermione squeezes his hand back tightly, meaningfully, and he immediately realises that she must have sent a warning to Tom ahead of their entrance. His suspicions are confirmed when he sees Doris Crockford almost bursting out of her seat in the corner of the room. Next to her, her friend elbows her side sharply. He turns away uncomfortably, trying to get Hermione to follow him out of the stuffy and tight confinement of the pub. Thankfully, she seems to understand his message and they hasten out, through the brick wall, into Diagon Alley.

In hindsight, Harry is not quite sure why he thought the best place to initiate his return to wizarding society would be the busiest and most well known street in Non-Muggle Britain. Diagon Alley, as always, is an eruption of colour, noise and smell. He gazes solemnly at Olivanders for a second, remembering the chilling emptiness of the shop the last time he had visited. Now, a pink haired teenager walks through the door, hand in hand with her younger sister and from the looks of it, a sparkling new wand. From further down the cobbled road, he can detect the whiff of the strawberry and peanut butter ice cream that he had once purchased from Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour with Ron and Hermione, and if he really strains his senses, the smoke of an explosion from Weasley Wizard Wheezes sifts through the air. He knows that, currently, Lee Jordan is running the shop completely singlehandedly, and he mentally sends him good fortune. Nervous first years and bubbling second years, eager to see their new-found best friends again, are flooding the streets with parents in one hand and bags of sweets in the other. However, as Ron had said there would be, he notes with sadness the significantly smaller than normal amount. 

The gaps -the things that are missing- are more noticeable to Harry. They stand out in stark contrast to what he remembers from Diagon Alley during the war. On the wall of an alleyway leading away from the main street, he sees remnants of the Wanted posters that had firstly been up for the Death Eaters, and then for him. Gringotts, now standing tall and proud once more, crumbles before him again in his mind’s eye, as it had done on that fateful day of the Battle. He can almost hear the alarms blaring and the goblins crying out to each other as the Dragon shattered the building into ruin- at least, that is what he had assumed. At the time, it had felt like he would never get past the terror, the running, the fight. He had presumed that the destruction left behind would be the same.

Passing Ollivanders, Harry considers that he still owns Malfoy’s wand. He courtly wonders how Malfoy is handling that situation and spares a snigger at the pain he hopes it is causing him. Imagining Malfoy living Muggle-style brings Harry great joy, but when he tells Hermione, she just looks at him disapprovingly.

“Harry, you do know what happens when a wizard loses or breaks their original wand, right?” she sniffs, glancing in at the small queue of customers waiting, “Because I would hope that you would recognise how horrible of a situation it is.”

“Well, yeah. After mine broke, it was utter shit.” he responds, remembering the days in the forest with his spare wand. It is as if he was controlling an arm that wasn’t his own. He was aware of what he wanted it to do, but when he put it into practise, he could not translate his thoughts into action. The levels of frustration he had felt at the disjointed magic had made him want to punch the nearest tree until it fought him back. 

“Exactly”

“But it’s just Malfoy,” he groans, “You can’t say you don’t find the image of him wearing washing up gloves just a little bit funny.”

The corner of her lips upturn, as if she is trying not to agree, but soon she has returned to frowning at him in displeasure. Oh to have a Hermione-level of restraint, it must be so helpful. He drops the subject but keeps the picture of Malfoy on his pointed knees, whilst scrubbing a toilet, in the back of his mind for further amusement. Sue him.

Soon, Ron is joining them and following in tow is Ginny. This is only slightly awkward. He’s fine. They smile at each other halfheartedly, Ginny tapping her foot in that impatient manner of hers, and Harry coming close to fainting with each counting second.

Actually, he is lying. It’s terribly awkward, and he only hopes that soon she will run off to find Dean, as the latest gossip tells, and by that he means Ron. Who told him this with a bucketful of bottled anger, an accusatory finger pointing at the wall for emphasis on the particularly harsh notes, and a chopstick funnelling Pad Thai into his mouth.

It’s strange that he finds now that the pain comes from losing her as a friend, rather than from a lack of romance with her. They were never particularly skilled with that side of things anyway. Unluckily for Ginny, his experience with Cho did not seem to gain him any points in the kissing department and he was painfully aware that the whole time with Ginny, he was kissing like a child eating their vegetables, unwillingly, stiffly and with an air of ‘Can I go now?’. Looking back, it really is not surprising that their relationship came to an end. He’s certain that Dean, with his easy looks and built muscles, which Harry sometimes guiltily caught himself staring at as he sauntered past in his low-slung tracksuits, snogs like he was born for it.

Blushing at the thought, he moves beside Ron as they walk down the road, conscious of Ginny’s fiery gaze behind him. She had been the one to call time, after one particularly bad week in which Harry had refused to see her. It had been two months since the battle at that point. There was a wedge between them, which had been cruelly forged during his absence in seventh year, perhaps even before. No matter how forcefully either of them shoved at it, it prevailed- strong, solid and fixed.

Harry thinks she’s better off without him. He’s not so sure about himself, but he recognises now that he was devastating her, as if she could have been any more so after Fred’s death. And he could not cope with the pressure and responsibilities of a relationship, not when a trip to the bathroom to brush his own fucking teeth is more uncommon than not. She thought it was disgusting, Ron doesn’t understand it, Hermione tries, and Harry? Well he’s just proud of the days where he does manage the trek along the landing, no matter how heavy his legs feel, and how much he just wants to collapse right there on the wooden floorboards. Kreacher would probably eat him for dinner if he died in the house. 

They all enter Madame Malkin’s together, shoving each other to get through the door like rowdy third years. You can avoid a new cauldron, and even your new books if you are cheeky enough to just borrow them all year long, but one of the many flaws of adolescence is the perpetual growth that comes with it. 

“Welcome, my dears!” Madame Malkin startles, busy tailoring and trimming a petite girl’s robes next to the expanse of mirror, which seems to stretch for miles somehow in the tiny room. “Do try to not cause a fuss in my doorway, if you will.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.” Hermione mumbles respectfully, as Ron snickers in her ear. She swats at his ear and he lets out a dramatic moan.

“Yes, yes.” She replies distractedly.

Harry peers around and tries to remember what everything looked like when he was eight inches shorter, with even more knobbly knees than he has now. Certainly Madame Malkins appeared much more intimidating than the short and greying witch she has become. He thinks of Malfoy, baby faced yet still so angular (how is that possible?), and almost feels nostalgic. 

How deluded has he become, he thinks, shaking off the memory, that he’s missing Malfoy’s posh arrogance. 

They get their robes measured, Harry still feeling the immature embarrassment that comes with the combination of an old witch’s hands, and his body. That never quite goes away.

Afterwards, they wander down the street aimlessly. He picks up on the dilemma between Ron and Ginny of wanting to visit Weasley’s Wizard wheezes, in all its chaotic glory, but not wishing to see the place that Fred put his whole heart and soul into without him there. Hermione makes the decision for them to instead purchase some lunch in Muggle London, the animated nature of Diagon beginning to affect her too. Glancing at each of them, he notices a slightly sallow pallor to all of their faces, and he can only imagine at the horror that is most probably his current appearance. There’s a sense of relaxation at Hermione’s words, and they all set off. 

Ron and Hermione walk closely together, their hands entwined as if they are one entity. He’s happy for them, he really is, but if they could save their affection for private so that Harry doesn’t have to plod alongside Ginny, as he is doing now, it would be most appreciated. Ginny’s long and auburn hair is swept into a ponytail, and he knows this means that she is going to Quidditch practise later. It’s something that he most admires about her. Her refusal to give into darkness- the way she throws it to one side like one of the Quaffles that she plays with.

“Game later?” Harry asks.

She makes a noise of agreement and smiles crookedly, her freckled nose twitching and teeth showing. “Yeah, Luna’s coming to watch so I need to get my A game on. Otherwise she’ll make some weird cryptic comment afterwards and I’ll wonder if it was an insult to my playing or not.” At this, she laughs lightly as they step into a cafe.

“I can imagine.” he snorts, “I didn’t realise that Luna was the type to, you know, come to your games. I mean I know she used to watch all of the Hogwarts ones but I thought that was only because everyone did, back then. House pride, and all that.” and he chuckles at the memory of her lion hat, because Luna supported all the houses, not just her own. “But then I guess Luna wouldn’t be the one to do something she didn’t want to just because others were.” Harry loves that about her, erratic as she is.

“Yeah, I don’t know. She seems to really like coming. And I like her coming” If Harry wasn’t becoming steadily more insane by the day, he could have sworn Ginny was blushing. A flushed pink is spreading across her face, reaching her ears. Interesting.

“I bet you’re gonna be a famous Quidditch player one day, Gin. I see it now: First successful Weasley- nation shocked!” he jokes in an attempt to change and drop the subject. If the implication of their previous conversation is what Harry thinks it is, he is both confused and a little angry. It hasn’t been that long since they broke up, he thinks heatedly. Maybe that’s unfair of him, but he recalls the weeks after it ended, and the bone-deep agony that he felt at each and every reminder of her. In his pit of despair, he had thrown away his favourite Quidditch magazines, the ones that they had shared together. 

“Ha Ha, Harry. Very funny.” Ginny retorts drily.

Ron and Hermione order for them both and when the food comes, simple but delectably gooey pizza, they all dig in ravenously. Conversation bounces between them and Harry zones out, thinking of his now very apparent status as a lone bachelor.

\----

Upon the departure of Ron, Hermione and Ginny for the Burrow, Harry finds himself at a loss. They had offered, even begged, him to come with them but one thought of Molly’s tears had made him firmly decline, despite feeling ashamed to do so. Ron had shrugged despondently and then they had left him, standing alone on the pavement, walking away with their arms wound around each other. 

Bizarrely, Harry realises that he doesn’t want to go home, back to the dingy and musty smelling rooms. He cringes at the thought. The house will probably lock him out in it’s everlasting grudge, and Kreacher will offer him a poorly made cup of tea as he perches on the pavement. There is a reason why he prepares his own beverages, and it’s not that he is protesting against the cruel treatment of house elves. Kreacher would smack him with the remains of Aunt Walburga and then bury him alive if he dare even suggest freeing him from his loyal duty. 

No, he’s going to stay outside. Do something worthwhile and, Merlin’s Beard, healthy. The sun beams brightly, which invites warmth to drizzle through Harry in a manner more satisfying than any Warming Charm.

With no goal in mind, he ambles along the busy road. Ignoring the bodies that crowd him is difficult, but as it’s noon on a weekday, it could be worse. On a street corner somewhere, a busker plays the saxophone and he wishes he had some Muggle money to drop in the top hat. 

He arrives on the corner of Hyde Park without even realising it. It’s late August, a sunny day, and therefore, brimming with energy. Groups of teenagers in skimpy tops and shorts are dotted around and a few yards from him, a plump couple are topless in the sun, their pink skin sinking into the grass. Is that even legal? He’s out of touch with Muggles. And Wizards, his subconscious adds.

Wandering on, he stops at a quieter spot underneath a shady tree and drops to rest against the trunk. Although he knows that he won’t be here long, Harry feels that if he returned home now, in this rare state of productivity, he would be letting himself down. There’s a girl about his age, with shoulder length brown hair which falls in waves, resting on her elbows a few feet away from him. She has a thick book out, and her mustard sandals are kicked off, discarded in the grass.

It’s only after a few minutes that he realises she’s watching him through her round sunglasses, slipping gradually off of her nose.

“Can I help you?” he demands, maybe a bit aggressively, but he feels paranoid. And it’s rude of her to ruin his extremely uncommon bout of peace like this. 

“Not really, sorry. Just thought you were quite good looking.” She grins good-naturedly and he’s shocked into speechlessness, rather humiliatingly.

This has quite literally never happened before. Well not quite, he has certainly had fan-girls, and even a few fanboys, compliment his appearance. However, he has always regarded them as insubstantial. They wouldn’t think him so had he not been the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’, times two. Never has a person, with a lack of incentive or alternative intentions towards him, called him handsome. Not even Ginny counts, she had only done so when she had wanted something from him. He’s truly shell-shocked. And panicking.

“I-uh. I-I- uh. Thanks? Uh.” he splutters like an idiot and she laughs at him, boldly and with great volume.

“Welcome. Don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to return the compliment.” She smiles and moves to a cross-legged position opposite him. Grabbing a bunch of daisies from around her, she starts creating a chain out of the flowers.

“You- uh..are very, uhm, pretty?” he accidentally phrases it as a question in his nervousness and he wants to slap himself for his lack of charm.

Again, she just giggles softly and continues with her craft. He studies her subtly, she has thick eyebrows and a nose ring- something he hasn’t seen since the punks that would cringe from Dudley’s bulbous figure at his old primary school. Weirdly, it looks soft on her, feminine and delicate, and he realises that it has a daisy gem on the hoop. Her small but straight nose is splattered with faint freckles, something he hadn’t noticed from afar. Ginny’s could be seen from Mars if you were looking, he’s sure.

“Thanks!” She looks up at him happily and he catches her green-eyed gaze.

Despite her obvious beauty, Harry feels a little uncomfortable, as if he’s playing a game that isn’t his. He shifts his legs and twiddles with his thumbs, and her face falls ever so slightly. They lie there together for a few idyllic minutes, her having moved back on her front and him leaning against the tree. A few leaves flitter into his lap and he tunes into the background noise of someone’s rap music being blasted somewhere near. 

“Ah.” she says.

“What?” he responds, agitated by her cryptic comment. “What’s that noise for?”

“You’re in love,” she states matter-of-factly, as if she hadn’t just said something most illogical and unfounded, “My name is Erin, by the way.” The daisy-chain is almost finished as she says this, and she smiles at it, as if she is keeping a secret that nobody else is aware of.

“I’m sorry, I hate to disappoint, but I’m really not.” Harry scoffs in disbelief at her invasive and, frankly, weird comment. Butterflies flutter in his stomach, for a reason unknown to him. “And I’m Harry.”

“Oh,” her misjudgement doesn’t seem to bother her much as she carries on in her vaguely dreamy voice, “OK. Well then, you will be soon, mark my words. Or maybe you’re still in love with your ex?” Erin peers at him inquisitively, “But I think it’s the other one. No, actually, I’m certain.”

Harry feels a rush of panic? In love with his ex? Was he ever even in love with Ginny? He doesn’t even know why he is contemplating this stranger’s words but somehow, they unsettle him. He frowns at her.

“Erin, I’m sorry but you’re mistaken,” he grumbles, “And possibly clinically insane. Go check yourself in right now.” At that, she barks a laugh which sounds like a peal of bells, and he cannot help but break his glower and join in. It’s contagious. He wonders what Ron and Hermione would think of him now and he decides that they’d be both proud and incredibly disturbed. 

One moment they are heaving breaths of laughter together, and the next she is shoving the handmade daisy crown onto his dishevelled and dark hair. 

“There.” she grins widely, all-teeth and eyes glinting, “Ahhh, perfect. As pretty as a picture, Harry.” he flutters his eyelashes stupidly, feeling simultaneously more light and free than ever, the weight that comes with being a wizard lifted from his chest for the time being. 

“My family are full of witches, did you know? That’s how I know these things.” she says seriously and he does a double take, thinking perhaps that she has caught onto him. There is a tense few seconds before she breaks character and laughs again. Her cheerful mood manages to make the heavy feeling that had been beginning to settle inside him again, dissipate. 

Nevertheless, fatigue hits him, his body and mind not used to this setting, and he immediately knows he needs to leave. It wouldn’t do to have the amiable acquaintance, which he has managed to form with this sweet and pretty girl in the last few minutes, destroyed by his fucking trauma, and his fucking relentless sadness. 

“I think I’m gonna have to leave now. I was only sitting here for a few, but it was nice to meet you and thank you for the daisies.” he turns to leave and she grabs his ankle, dragging her body through the thick grass as she does so.

“Wait!” she exclaimed, “I know you’re preoccupied romantically, shame that, but if you ever want to hang and hear more about my witchy talents, send me a text!” she wiggles her eyebrows and hands him a piece of paper. Harry, being a bloody wizard, has no idea what the standard response would be to someone who just gave you their contact details, of which you will never be able to use. So, he just murmurs his gratitude again, along with a farewell, and makes his exit. With him, he carries the happy spirit of Erin’s laughter.

Once he’s home, he nods his greetings to Kreacher and goes to the bathroom to rid his hands of the mud he has accumulated. In the mirror afterwards, he watches as a little daisy petal cascades down his face and into his sink. It’s fair to say he looks ridiculous with the crown around his head, but the memory makes him smile. All he can think as he winds down for the evening is that he wishes he could spend every day in the cooling shadow of an oak tree, with beautiful girls who laugh too much, instead of being shipped off to schools which double as battlegrounds. 

He scarcely manages to fold up the robes that he had purchased from Madame Malkin’s, and say goodnight to Cindy, before collapsing in the vast expanse of his bed. Finding that he’s utterly exhausted, he drops into a slumber almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Dreams of white daisy petals, a love that doesn’t exist, and the impending _clack clack clack_ of a scarlet steam engine, plague him through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be harry's arrival at hogwarts and what ensues ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry arrives at hogwarts and stoof happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii hope u enjoy pls comment and leave kudos it means a lot to me :))

The morning of his return to Hogwarts comes around so swiftly that Harry feels like he has whiplash. 

All week, he has been cradling his pillows and hoping that somehow, the date would never arrive. Alas, it crept up on him before he had even begun to come to terms with the idea of being a full time student once more. It is now, at the ungodly hour of five AM, that Harry is wishing desperately that his bed-sheets would swallow him up. He reckons that he could live quite pleasantly in the furrows of his duvet for the remainder of his life, should some god grant him this kindness. 

Cindy watches mockingly from the comfort of her silken web, loaded with no burdens but that of her next meal. Nevertheless, Harry acknowledges that he would have still probably prevailed in finding a way to make this into a difficult task, had he been born a spider. He is just complicated like that, and Mcgonagall did always say that trouble followed him like a shadow.

He lies like that for at least an hour, leaving it until the last conceivable minute before some divine will must manage to fire up a little energy in his muscles. Stroking the crinkled cotton of his duvet, he stands up and collects his Star Wars socks from off of the floorboards. They are a little dirty, but his new robes will do a decent job of covering his ankles up, and really, the only person who would notice such a thing would perhaps be Professor Flitwick with his small stature. 

Or a house elf, like Dobby, a timid and unwelcome voice in his head whispers sadly.

Harry winces as the bruise to his heart, which flares up whenever he is reminded of someone he lost, is ripped apart in its current state of healing. It is as if somebody has plunged a knife into a partially-closed wound. Suddenly, he staggers to the nearest wall at the cutting realisation that everyday will be like this at Hogwarts. It’s overwhelming and he has the urge to scream into the nearest surface.

With Sirius in mind and once he collects himself, he glances sorrowfully around at the room that had once belonged to his godfather. He had kept up the posters of the comically large-breasted women, despite their ludicrosity, as a nod to Sirius’ hatred of the house, and to all the rebellious attitudes he adopted whilst trapped within its walls. Somehow, it eases his occasional guilt when he remembers that he has taken up residence in a place that Sirius would have seen razed to the ground given the opportunity. He’s the sole leader of the revolt now; he would be betraying the cause in taking them down.

He pads over to the window, feet hitting the cold and hard wood with soft plods. The curtains have not been opened once in all the time he has been sleeping here, as he understands. The fabric is moth-bitten and musty; a cream colour with heavy drawstring ropes that hang lifelessly. Sirius would have hated them, with their haughty sense of importance in both the grandeur and scale, he knows. Along the hemline, there are chunky tassels which swing threateningly when he goes to open the curtains. He meets resistance as he tries to tug them across the rail with all the strength left in his weakened body, which is admittedly not a lot. 

It becomes evident that the house doesn’t care for him to feel the sunlight which is attempting to break through the thick material, so he gives up with a huff. 

Fine, he sniffs. He’s leaving now anyway and Grimmauld Place can rot in peace. He will no longer be a part of the debris left behind, as he had one anticipated.

Once downstairs, he assembles the items he needs to take with him. He grabs his robes from where Hermione had set them out as a reminder the day prior. She seemed to be fretting that he might turn up in his carrot orange Chudley Cannon pyjamas. Seamus would have a field day. 

Harry trudges to the toilet to relieve himself and catches himself with displeasure in the mirror as he does so. Annoyed, he wiggles his eyebrows just to check that the figure staring back at him is not an impostor. He has gotten skinnier over the summer and his skin has an unattractive pale sheen to it, as if he is unwell. At least that would easily explain away to any questioning eyes why, in these past months, he has barely seen the outside of his room.

He sticks his tongue out experimentally at the stranger opposite him and feels peculiar as it copies his movement. Surely this shell of a man can’t be the once brave and noble Harry Potter? He snorts at the preposterous title he had been donned by the Daily Prophet, and slams the door hard on his way out.

Eating his toast and jam in the kitchen, he smiles sheepishly at Kreacher, who stares at him from across the length of the dining table. Unsure whether he has something on his face, he rubs around his mouth with the back of his hand, but it comes up clean. Outside, the sun is finishing rising and the sky is soaked in golden washes of yellow and orange, the colour spilling throughout the clouds. His kitchen is submerged in the light of it; he regards the soft gold tones covering the entirety of the room, twinkling like stars, with a sense of contentment.

It’s the silhouette of two birds, who dance together against this gilded backdrop, that he’s watching when he realises that the doorbell is ringing impatiently. He slings his satchel over his shoulder and prepares to meet Hermione and Ron for the coming day.

\-----

After the blur of people, deafening and relentless, at Platform 9 and 3/4, Harry is breathing heavily and alone in the first empty compartment that he had found. He’s not sure where Hermione and Ron are; he thinks he might have lost them in the crowd in his rush to get on the train.

Hands and bodies slam down on the carriage window, trying to grab his attention. Unofficial biographies written about his life are squished up against the glass and a head-shot of himself taken by Rita Skeeter in fourth year is leering at him menacingly. The noise is unlike anything he has ever heard before. Voice on voice upon voice overlap in an unsynchronised and roaring chorus, grating at his skin and mind with every relentless note. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that he can control himself in front of such a large crowd. The last thing he wants is to cause a spectacle and have himself plastered on the front page of the Daily Prophet. His recent absence from society has made them ravenous, practically foaming at the mouths for a chance at a piece of gossip on their hero. 

Hermione had solemnly told him once that his smiling at the 60 year old waitress in his local greasy spoon had earned him the spot on the front of the paper. His ugly mug spread out in black and white with the headline ‘Saviour needs saving from Cougar?” Since then, he hasn’t returned to the cafe out of pure humiliation for both himself and the older woman- who is, in reality, a loving mother of three, working a minimum wage job to support her family. It was shameful and he had felt nauseous at the influx of mail that had flooded his agent, all offering their aid in ‘getting rid of her’. She still smiles kindly at him every time he walks past, unbeknown to the abuse she still receives from complete strangers. He had her secretly placed under Auror surveillance.

Trying to drown out the ringing in his ears, Harry curls in on himself and screws his eyes shut as tightly as he can.

He’s not sure how long it has been when Ron and Hermione fall into the carriage, but Hermione automatically fastens the blinds shut. She then aims a silencing spell out of the window, and the world settles a little back into place, the commotion coming to an abrupt stop. Smiling at Harry, she collapses next to Ron on the seats and he notices their bedraggled appearances.

“Was it that bad for you guys too?” asks Harry, “‘Mione, your hair is mad.”

“Horrible.” Ron answers, shuddering.

Hermione whirls on him.

“Not your hair, love! The crowds, I swear.” proclaims Ron, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

Hermione grunts and narrows her eyes, but pats him on the knee as a demonstration of understanding before turning to Harry, “What about you, Harry? That was awful for us but I imagine even more horrific for you. Did anyone hurt you?” She scans worriedly up and down Harry’s body. 

“No, I’m fine,” he lies, “Did we know it was going to be that bad?”

An expression of sympathy spreads across her features and Hermione’s full lips downturn at the corners. “Not at all. I was under the impression that Kings Cross even had orders from the Ministry to heighten their security today. It appears someone isn’t doing their job right.” she frowns. Harry feels hotly embarrassed at the level of fuss that surrounds them at every instance in which they are outside. 

“Sorry that I left you guys,” Harry leans back against the seat and wraps his arms around his knees, the instinct to protect himself still existent, “I had to get out of there before Amelia Brundlewood ended up stealing one of my socks, or something.”

They all share a quiet snicker at the idea. The level of toxicity currently residing in Harry’s socks is probably more dangerous than Voldemort himself.

“It’s OK, Harry,” Hermione says tenderly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you had decided to run away. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t,” her eyes widen and she adds “and I’m happy that you haven’t!”, as if she fears he is about to bolt out of the carriage at any given second. The idea is tempting.

Before he can contemplate making a dash for it, the engine begins to pump and the train starts to move out of the station. Although the strength of Hermione’s charms had made him feel alone for a moment, bar his two best friends, he still feels lighter at the thought. Ron and Hermione start chatting about their predictions for dinner in the Great Hall that evening, and whether Mcgonagall will bother them all with a speech or not.

“I, for one, would appreciate a lift in morale. Some of us are not especially eager to be returning, and I think it would help.” she says, looking pointedly at the two of them.

“I dunno whether an accent that thick can pull off anything quite as cool sounding as Dumbledore, though.” adds Ron jokingly. Harry personally thinks now that Dumbledore sounded everything but cool, as he terrified them all with descriptions of all the ways in which they could die brutally on the school grounds. Very comforting.

It’s to their easy bickering that Harry dozes off.

\----

When he awakes, Hermione and Ron are shaking him, and he realises that he has managed to sleep the entire journey. Congratulations Harry, he thinks, consistently proving the impossible, possible. 

His head is fuzzy with the blanket of sleep still blurring his thoughts, and he rubs his eyes. He observes spots in his vision as he opens them, an almost satisfying reminder of his mortality. Sometimes he wonders if he actually exists, or if he’s just going through the motions of an imagination. Apparently, as Hermione once informed him, there are groups of Muggles who believe they live in something called a “simulation”. Honestly, Harry could believe it with ease, after everything that he has seen.

They are soon moving through Hogsmeade and everywhere Harry turns, he catches glimpses and flashes of ghosts of a battle once fought. He looks to the Hogshead Inn, and a memory replays in his head of Aberforth hurrying him, Ron and Hermione inside in the dead of the night. It drifts away but the recollection of the blaring alarm still screeches. Over at the Three Broomsticks, the image of Malfoy striding through the pub purposefully, his mission: to Imperio Katie Bell, is stuck in his mind's eye. He almost thinks he can see that blonde head of hair now through the window panes, a look of terror painted upon his features. He squints, and it’s somebody else, laughing and punching their friend’s arm, expression liberated in joy. 

Harry begins to think that his apparent ability to live solely in the past may at least make him fascinating to Mind Healers, if not to any average functioning human being. It’s not much of a comfort, he despairs, just as a mirage of a Death Eater with bloody hands and cropped hair corporealizes right in front of him. He stumbles back into Hermione and she grabs his arm instinctively. As it fades away, Harry identifies a blast of a metallic smell that blows him into one of his nightmares.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione whispers under her breath, “We have to move on now or somebody will wonder what is up.”

They walk through the street a little further at this but Harry finds he cannot keep his attention on the journey, and he stumbles. He can feel that his feet are growing clumsier by the second, something that happens when his body stops wanting to cooperate. Hermione grasps his arm again and this helps steady him. One thing he attempts is holding a focus point in his vision, and just not looking away from it. Using an upcoming picketed fence, it works for a minute or two and he feels a swell of pride. Until, he reaches a particularly bumpy part of the road and wobbles drastically, losing balance. He has to stop in fear of twisting his ankle.

He spies a few of the looks he is getting from fellow classmates and acknowledges Hermione’s previous point- he has to keep moving. It would not do to have others suspect something is wrong, and it also might cause his muscles to freeze up. To distract himself, he grasps her in a quick hug and breathes in her scent, which flushes away the remnants of the bloody smelling man who had stalked past him. Inches from his body. A shiver rolls down his spine and he breathes in once more the earl-grey of her perfume. 

“OK, mate. Get off my woman now, or I may have to press charges.” says Ron, half kidding, half not. The alpha male in him has him cautiously watching Harry, before visibly shaking off the notion and returning to his conversation with Dean.

Hermione rolls her eyes. Harry agrees.

\------

They’re sitting down to eat their dinner in the Great Hall after the sorting of the first years, when a great number of things happen. 

First, Harry spots Draco Malfoy walking in late, clearly trying not to be noticed in creeping around the edge of the hall. He joins the Slytherin table at the very end, putting a considerable distance between himself and the rest of his peers. This makes the house appear even smaller than it is, the empty spaces speaking a thousand words at the current disdain of the house. Harry feels like he could be going into shock at the sight of his former enemy. He breaks out of his state to briefly laugh at himself. Enemy- really? At most, Malfoy was a pain in the arse. A melodramatic arsehole, who doubled as a bully and made idiotic decisions- absolutely. But he almost doesn’t want to grant the title of ‘enemy’ to such a weak person. Harry likes to think he deserves a more intimidating nemesis than Draco Malfoy and his stupid face. 

Still, his hands are clammy and his heart is hammering, and he doesn’t understand the strength of his reaction. Harry supposes that Malfoy is just another reminder of what he is trying so hard to forget. Despite this, he’s a little too perturbed at Malfoy’s figure, now hunched over in perhaps an attempt to make himself invisible. He would have expected the twat to make a conscious effort to rebuild his image. Prior to the trials, he envisaged, whenever the thought popped into his head, a boot-licking Malfoy throwing money around in order to try and erase the reputation that surrounded them like a black cloud. Instead, Lucius Malfoy got sentenced to life in prison, rightfully so. Narcissa Malfoy had broken down into all-consuming tears at the news, and Harry had had to make a hasty exit, feeling agonised by the sight of her body crumpled on the floor, for some reason. Malfoy Junior, however, had simply remained in his seat, stony and cold, whilst his father had been condemned. He had been pardoned, but there was no sense of pleasure in his face. Staring straight ahead at seemingly nothing in particular, he looked as if he wasn’t present in the room. Lifeless, even. His grey eyes, usually quick and cutting, were sunken and like an empty chasm. The hair, which had become so widely recognised during the press release of the trials, had dirtied itself into matted clumps that drooped onto his face, obscuring his sharp features.

Eventually, after Harry had left and come back, Malfoy glanced, just once, and very, very fleetingly, in his direction. Their eye contact was short but it had made him lose his appetite for three days. Ginny hadn’t understood at all. And to be honest, neither had he.

In the warmth of the Great Hall, Malfoy looks in a better condition than he had. Eyes a little less hollowed, hair falling in white waves instead of ashy-toned clusters. Despite this, he still retains that blank demeanour that had unsettled Harry so remarkably at in the chill of the courtroom. It has the same effect now.

He turns his attention to the easy companionship of his friends around him instead, sick to death of thinking about Draco fucking Malfoy and his fucking family. 

Astonishingly, Harry has actually been distracted enough since entering the Hogwarts grounds, that he hasn’t dwelled on any of the anxieties that he is painfully aware will visit him again in the privacy of his bed chambers this evening. It has been invigorating to chat with his housemates again, not having seen them properly since the couple of ostentatious charity functions that had taken place over the summer. Merlin knows Harry had not been in the most amiable of moods at these, mostly taking to getting pissed at the bar with Ron. 

Now, he converses with Neville, startled to discover that he has been dating Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff. Over on their table, she waves at them with a beaming grin and Neville blushes furiously. Harry is seriously happy for him, seeing the glee as clear as day on his round face, and promises to himself that he will make more of a conscious effort to keep up to date with his friend’s lives.

There is a hush of voices as Professor Mcgonagall briskly stands up to make her speech. Harry sincerely hopes there won’t be anymore mentions of death and destruction in this year’s edition. She cuts a stern figure in her swooping Headmaster’s robes but the hint of a smile on her thin lips informs Harry of her true sentiments towards the scene before her.

“Good evening, all.” She begins, inspiring total quiet from the sea of students.

“I hope you are all well on this pleasant night, and I trust that you have all had a safe journey here.” says Mcgonagall warmly, clasping her hands together, “There is not much to say tonight other than I wish you all a happy and studious year here at Hogwarts. Alas, there are a few important notes that I would like to touch on before we feast.”

Harry peers at Hermione sitting opposite him, knowing from the scrutiny on her face that she is already making calculations in her mind as to what Mcgonagall might be about to say.

“Firstly, I’ll begin by mentioning that, as always, the Forbidden Forest is off limits to students and under no circumstances should you venture anywhere near its borders without the presence of a member of staff.” she says, and Harry feels as if she is directing her comment at his area of the Gryffindor table. Somewhere further down the bench, a student yawns exaggeratedly at the information, which is consistently annually repeated, and a chorus of giggles echoes throughout the otherwise silent hall.

“Thank you for that, Mr Murphy,” Professor Mcgonagall says wryly and Harry now witnesses a fifth year named Olivier shrugging cheekily in response. 

“As I was saying, there are no other off limits sections in the castle grounds this year, but I must implore each and every one of you to be cautious of the ongoing renovations in all parts of the school,” and the hall falls, if possible, even quieter at the mention of the war.

“It has been a difficult year, as we all know, and the hardships that we have all faced should bound us tighter than ever. Inter-house unity has never been so important in creating a more peaceful and accepting society. Let it be known that Hogwarts will not tolerate any prejudice towards any students, and this includes towards the members of Slytherin House,” Harry glances over at Malfoy, who is trying to seem disinterested at the speech as he stares at the ceiling. The fact that he is picking at his nails gives him away.

Mcgonagall continues, “This has led me to make the decision that, this year, the normal house rules will be discarded.” 

Immediately, every corner of the room is filled with the buzz of animation and frenzied confusion. It only serves to increase in volume as friends begin to discuss what precisely this means. Harry thinks he has never seen Hermione so invested. Head lolling and eyes half-lidded, Ron, on his part, has the air of somebody who could drop dead in sleep at any second.

Mcgonagall whips her wand twice sharply and it spurts out a vigorous jet of silver sparks, quelling the outbreak of discussion. “By this, I mean to say that we will no longer use the house points system. Students can visit any common room they choose, given that it is in the window of your curfew, and we have renounced the use of passwords.” Harry hears raucous whooping from Ginny and he irritably remembers Luna in the Ravenclaw common room. Already, gossip flits from person to person and he feels fondness at the childlike habits that he had resigned himself to never experiencing again. The horrors that he had faced over the past few years had certainly not made it difficult to forget the simple yet rich pleasure of childhood innocence. Rather, he had lived his life in black and white, aged beyond his years. He is unaccustomed now to the vibrant colours of youth and adolescence. 

“Furthermore,” she pauses emphatically, “our additional year group, eighth year, will forgo the housing system once and for all. Eighth years, you are, from now on, one house. Please do not forget your duty to each other. You shall be sharing a new common room close to the greenhouses and your new dormitory arrangements will be assigned upon arrival. ” 

The penny drops and strikes the floor. Harry will remember the moment that jaws swung wide open and outrage exploded for years to come. Zacharius Smith seems to be booing from his seat on the Hufflepuff table, his angry features distorted in indignation. For the first time since the war, Harry sees Malfoy showing emotion. His eyes widen in shock, face white as a sheet. Harry cannot gage whether this is positive or negative. Hermione hums a murmur of approval and glares at the furious students in obvious contempt for their behaviour.

Harry is not quite sure how to react to the information. In many ways, he is prepared to leave behind the confinements and restrictive boundaries of a house. He has long felt that the segregation of students into only interacting with like-minded people enforces a culture which promotes cliquey attitudes. It is unsurprising that students don’t understand each other- they are forced apart. However, Gryffindor has also long been a key part of his identity. Ever since he was just a scrawny eleven year old wearing a Sorting Hat which threatened to fall down his face it was so large, his house has represented an immense portion of who he is. Without that, he feels even more lost in this castle of broken pieces, readily growing more foreign to him. He is, not to mention, disturbed at becoming one with the Slytherins- with Malfoy. Ugh. He makes a noise of distaste.

“Silence!” Mcgonagall demands, “That will be all. Please enjoy your meal.” and as she speaks the words, the food materialises into existence.

Every student digs in at the same time and noises of delight groan in mass unison over the plates of vegetables and marinated meats which splatter the tables. Dinner is a spirited affair, debates already breaking out over house loyalties as people switch between the house tables. Harry, Ron and Hermione just continue to natter amongst themselves and with their classmates. 

“As I see it,” says Ron with a mouth full of lemon chicken, “It doesn’t really matter. As long as I’m still in the same house with you lousy lot, I don’t really care who else shares it.” and with those wise words he tucks into a plate of macaroni cheese which appear miraculously before him.

“Oh bloody hell, this is too fucking good.”

They are a group of teenagers, both emotionally and physically scarred, who prevailed in the face of a madman, and who came out the other side of hell’s road. Harry feels that he is justified in having pride in that. A small island of easy camaraderie in a vast ocean of students, they dish out the food and enjoy the small luxury of friendship.

\-------

As they approach their reassigned dormitories and common room, Harry observes the unfamiliar surroundings warily. It is situated in the opposite corridor of the one which leads to the greenhouses, and he has never once thought to walk down here. To be fair to him, he would not be alarmed to find out that this entire area has been fabricated using Wizard Space whilst the renovations are underway. 

It’s a light and lofty corridor, and up ahead, there is a small archway which he assumes leads to their new rooms. Next to it, a sheet of paper floating with a suspended torch will dictate, he presumes, the rooming arrangements for their dorms. Whatever the outcome, he crosses his fingers in the hope that he and Ron will at least be bunked together. He digs his nails into his palms so deeply that it draws scant beads of blood. The intensity of anticipation treads on his chest, flattening the sense of calm he has managed to maintain for the majority of the evening. Fortuitously, as of yet he has coped with any invading flashbacks and memories quite well, but he is dreading the thought of going through the ordeal without his best friend, his rock, beside him. He gets the impression that he might permanently drift away into insanity if Ron isn’t there to ground him with his solid presence.

Bodies congregate the area surrounding the posted information, swarming and cramming each other in attempts to see it first. An elbows flies in his direction and almost jabs him in the eye; probably would have, had he not developed a Seeker's instinct from playing the position for six years straight. 

He edges towards the sheet, noting the celebratory whoops and proclamations of disappointment from girls and boys alike, who have already read the list. Blaise Zabini marches past him, dark and striking features looking distinctly pissed off. Seamus and Dean cheer and embrace in a bear hug, appearing to have been roomed together.

“Harry, if I get Malfoy in my dorm, please make sure my funeral is dignified. And that everyone cries loads. I want to know that I'm missed when I'm watching from up there. Also, tell Hermione she cannot date my brothers.” says Ron earnestly. He gulps and pats Harry’s shoulder before inching forward with all the bravery one would expect to find in a Gryffindor. Unlike Harry, who knows he needs to move in order to find out his fate, but doesn't do anything to help accommodate this. Instead, he just stands frozen, like a deer in the headlights, rendered unable to spur his limbs into action. The idea that he could be sleeping, in close proximity, with complete strangers in the immediate future, as in tonight for Merlin’s sake, sends his mind into a wild hysteria. 

Ron turns to him slowly, his body language signifying to Harry, before he even opens his mouth, that he has some unfortunate news to share. His ginger head is stooped low, his hands are furrowed in his pockets and his feet are pointing inwards. He is the picture of defeat.

“Look, mate” he says, a furrow between his brows, and he hesitantly hands Harry the sheet, “See for yourself.”

In a rush of impatience, Harry snatches it and it tears right down the middle, obscuring a large number of the names. Fingers mildly shaking, he tries to hold it together. The sense of foreboding is tearing up his insides, a million jagged shards which cut him like glass as he breathes.

Finally, it is just about legible and his hands are still enough to discern the scrawl of his name. He scans the paper frantically, eyes scouring the blotted ink letters, with feverish urgency. He just needs to know now. Someone, some _idiot_ has blotched the nib of a quill, and a splodge of ink prevents him from being able to decipher the last name. Harry rubs at it and the black begins to fade under the heat of his thumb. _Please be Ron. Please be Ron. Please be Ron._

It's not Ron.

Once comprehension strikes, he drops it to the floor in shock, letting it tumble from his loosened grasp. A numb feeling sets in his body. 

It reads:

_Harry Potter  
Justin Finch-Fletchley  
Anthony Goldstein  
Draco Malfoy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry settles into dorm life.. kinda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo hope this okay :) sorry if the pace seems at all slow but this will be a slow burner (because they are the best duh) and i want to explore everything in detail. this story will eventually become something over than just an eighth year story (hint hint: running away) so keep with me ;)

That evening, Harry stalls his inevitable entrance to the dormitories for as long as possible. He clings to the sofa’s armrest, a ludicrous fear haunting him that he will be dragged through by some miserable soul. His fingers clench around the aged fabric; he grips it as if he were a newborn lamb on the verge of being ripped from its mother. He feels weak and childish. Age eighteen and he is frightened of a bedroom. _And the boy inside_.

“It could be worse,” says Ron in a kind yet unhelpful manner, his eyebrows upturned and smiling at Harry weakly.

“No offence, Ron, but how could it be any fucking worse?” snaps Harry bitterly, feeling unreasonably resentful at his best friend. Ron had been roomed with Neville, Ernie and Zabini. Whilst Harry has some semblance of pity for Ron’s impending endurance of Zabini’s infamous vanity, he cannot help but secretly wish they could swap places. Fucking _Malfoy_. He’d rather take Zabini, with his smug arrogance and his twelve dozen mirrors, one hundred times over, than share his sleeping space with Malfoy. The boy might have been pardoned but his role in the death and destruction constantly rings in Harry's mind, no matter how much of a liking Witch Weekly takes to his _dashing looks_. Harry does not understand the appeal, personally, despite the fact that his _hair looks like fresh snow_ , to quote their latest report.

Merlin. He’s going to die.

“I think he’s harmless at the moment. He seems very subdued. It’s curious.” adds Hermione thoughtfully and they all chance a fleeting glance in Malfoy’s direction. 

It’s a modestly sized common room, much less grand than the glorious reds and sweeping tapestries of the Gryffindor counterpart, no matter how cosy it is. Harry presumes that this is due to the fact that, despite it now being law for all Hogwarts students to attend until the age of eighteen, many eighth years are absent, clearly not turning up. Unless they have decided to have a crack at beating Harry and Ron’s withstanding record for ‘latest pupils to the first night of school’.

Some are dead, like Crabbe. Some are imprisoned, like Goyle. Many just risked the Minister’s wrath and stayed home. Pavarti says that Lavender outright refused to come, stating “Azkaban, Hogwarts. What difference does it make, they’d both be prisons to me.”

Harry thinks she had the right idea; he imagines slapping his past self, the twat, for even considering coming to this cursed castle. Look where it has gotten him. 

Lining the room are gleaming lights of an intricate fashion. Upon further inspection, Harry had discovered that they were each shaped like a magical creature. He has particularly taken a liking to the Hippogriff carven one- golden, proud legs struck out in a confident pose. It had squawked at him, a quiet and startling noise, for Harry still often forgets the reality of magic. Some objects should remain unsentient, he feels. Although, he cannot deny that the gentle caws of the Hippogriff, so similar to those of Buckbeak, alleviated some of his numbness after he had first stumbled into the common room, minutes after the fateful news. He had sat in a cushy armchair, stroking it’s sculpted metal wings as it stomped around his lap. 

Mcgonagall has seemingly managed to avoid accusations of any possible house favouritism; there are no suggestions of Gryffindor Scarlet or Slytherin Emerald- the names interior designers have donned the shades, so commonly requested, by house-proud fools. The room is composed primarily from wood, with peachy yellow walls and mahogany furniture. Dotted around are numerous plants, both big and small in size, stretching out to meet each other and making the room feel like the inside of a tree. It’s charming, he thinks grudgingly. He is a little happy that he does not have to endure the inane colours of his previous house. It has been said that red can send you insane, he had watched a stout reporter say so on some Muggle documentary, and his brain does not need any more encouragement.

Malfoy is sat delicately over a table in the corner of the room. He is writing something onto a piece of parchment, elegant quill, which manages to maintain the same haughty nature as its owner, perched high in the air. Harry reflects that he is not sure whether he has even heard the man say one word as of yet. Good. The more posh drawling he hears, the quicker his life span dwindles. 

Sauntering over, Zabini seems to say something which agitates him and his face distorts into an irritated expression. His lips curl and Zabini rolls his eyes, turning to walk back in Harry’s direction. They make eye contact. Zabini’s dark stare, sweeping cheekbones and robes which sweep behind him in a manner that suggests their expense, leave Harry fidgeting. What is strange is that Harry’s feeble gaze seems to have a similar effect on the other boy. He frowns and hurries away, tripping ever so slightly. Nobody else appears to have noticed but Harry feels bizarrely perturbed at seeing the Zabini facade slip. He has to remind himself: _never see your enemies as human lest you forget the reason they are your enemy_. Harry has no fucking clue where he heard that but it seems appropriate in this moment. 

In the background, Harry catches a glimpse of Malfoy looking over at them. His head whips back to his paper before he notices Harry’s wandering eyes, however. Fleetingly, he wonders whether Malfoy is writing a plan on how to bring about Harry’s demise. He will probably wrap it up nicely with a silk ribbon and sneak it to Malfoy Senior in his cell at Azkaban, for his evil, scheming approval. 

“Who is in your dorm then, ‘Mione?” Harry asks, trying to bring his attention to more important matters than his upcoming death.

“Pansy Parkinson,” she grumbles unhappily, but then brightens a fraction, “Padma, and Susan. I’m actually rather excited to be with those two. Susan is lovely and Padma has incredibly interesting theories on Runes in the Age of Alexandria the Forlorn which I cannot wait to hear.”

“I think that you being in a room with her is gonna encourage your Ravenclaw side, ‘Mione, and I’m bloody terrified.” teases Ron from beside her on the floor’s cushions. A fire crackles behind them and for a second, Harry could mistake it for being third year, the three of them discussing the mundane normalities of their homework and school life by the Gryffindor fireplace, Ron still deep in his awkward crush phase on Hermione. The one that lasted until earlier this year, curse them both.

“Oh stop it, you,” she elbows his side, “You should really listen some time, both of you. It’s awfully fascinating and it could do you both some good to enrich yourselves with knowledge outside of schoolwork. If only you knew how to pick up a book.”

She smirks jokingly and Harry thinks that she has become more confident in herself since the war. To be candid, he is delighted to see it. He has been concerned that the memories of Malfoy Manor, paired with the suffering of her parents who still struggle to remember their beloved daughter with real clarity, would be too much for Hermione to handle. On a good day, they don’t flinch from her touch; they allow her to tenderly repeat her name and sometimes, if they are lucky, they will have moments of recognition. Harry has seen it himself and it broke his heart into splinters. Though, clearly, she can handle it. He should have never doubted her. 

Malfoy’s presence in the room suddenly seems to throw him back into a dark and shrouded place, where Bellatrix Lestrange tortured his best friend as she cackled wildly, a slave to insanity. Where he had lost his dear companion, Dobby. Anger and loss whip inside of him like a brewing storm.

“Alright, alright, ‘Mione,” says Ron lightheartedly, which juxtaposes Harry’s own mood in stark contrast, “Give a man a second to get settled again.”

“You get tonight at a push.” and she nuzzles into the crook of his arm, wound around her. Seeing their love for each other loosens the knot inside of Harry a little, but an ache of loneliness chimes up in replacement.

“Ugh,” Ron groans, “You torture me, you do. As if I won’t get enough of that with Zabini.” Then he appears to form a joke inside his head as he sniggers, “Hey, we each have our own personal Slytherin sleeping-buddy. Fun”

“Oh yeah, very. Can’t wait.” Harry says sarcastically, “My favourite part is when they string our guts up to dry. I think my intestines will look just great around Malfoy’s bed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous” Hermione scolds, although her lips wobble amusedly, “However, I won’t lie. I’m not particularly thrilled to be with Pansy. The look she gave me when we found out who we were being roomed with was almost feral. Still, we’ll see.”

“At least if I die, it will be to Zabini’s fairly nice pout. Harry gets Malfoy’s pointy bloody chin and ‘Mione, you get Pansy’s delightful pug face. Lucky me, I say,” and at that, Ron toasts his butterbeer, “To death by Slytherins.”

“To death by Slytherins!” Harry and Hermione repeat, clinking their own bottles against each other. It rings out loud in the common room, which has emptied out as the fire has died down, taking the light with them. Harry notices that Malfoy has disappeared. Theodore Nott glowers at them so hard that he looks as if he might break into two, and the three of them burst into laughter. Let him tell the rest of the snakes what they had drunk to, as if it will come as a surprise that they are full of hatred. It does tend to happen when you are on different sides of an all-consuming war. 

Harry begins to think that Mcgonagall’s proposal of inter-house unity might be a load of shit. You cannot raise sheep on sole interaction with each other, and then lock them in a cage with the bulls. It is blind optimism to think they will remain unscathed at the other end. Perhaps had they been reared together, it would be different.

The Hippogriff growls in agreement from above him, shining in the flickering warm embers of the dampened fire.

\--------

Harry takes his time preparing for bed. He shuffles around in the bathroom after shrugging on his newest jumper from Molly. The wool is somewhat itchy but he likes the way it warms his skin. Even agitation and the rash he feels forming are preferable to the detached state that had plagued him earlier that day, causing his body to lock and freeze. It reminds him of the lonesome months in Grimmauld place which he is trying so desperately hard to move on from, where he was incapable of understanding the needs of his mind and body. Letting himself decay.

He brushes his teeth and even manages to wash and cleanse his face, thank whatever God is blessing him with productivity on this chilly September night. Maybe it is just the adrenaline of being back. He hopes not, for this would mean impermanence. 

Wizards don’t use bathrooms often, he has noticed, and it rattles him. Ron says that he actively showers about once a month, and uses cleaning charms on every other occasion. Whilst Harry understands the level of practicality, he cannot help but feel disgusted. Call him old-fashioned, call him a Muggle, but Harry would like to stick to a good ol’ plumping system, thank you very much. Cleaning charms always leave him feeling a little too squeaky; he is a fan of the insignificant, little facts of life, like allowing your hair to be dried naturally, or clipping your toenails just that slightest bit too jaggedly. These things are small, but usually manageable for him to comprehend. Which means a lot. 

For a while, he sits cross legged on the cool tiles in the toilet. There is a crack running up the side of the wall and he traces it with his finger slowly, until there is no more to trace. It seems that Harry is in the habit of putting off the things that he doesn’t want to deal with, but as Hermione always says, procrastination is the temptation that we must resist. So he drags himself to the bedroom.

As he pushes the door open carefully, he notices two things. Firstly, that the layout of the room is unfamiliar, with the beds in rows of two, both rows facing each other from either side of the room. It feels empty in here, the pathway of moonlight highlighting the room’s lack of use, punching its way down the middle of the dark, bare floorboards. Secondly, that Malfoy is sitting up in his bed, opposite what Harry can see is his own. 

He looks odd in his pyjamas. Harry has almost been expecting him to wear his robes to bed, with the stuffy manner he has been exuding all day. As anticipated, the nightshirt and trousers are silken and matching, very unlike Harry’s own handmade, lumpy jumper and tartan pyjama bottoms. What an idiot. Both of them. His prominent collarbones are distinct in the blue light of the moon, as are his cheekbones. It’s eerie, Harry thinks, how similar he looks to the Malfoy of the war, sickly and skinny, yet simultaneously so different, with his childlike bedclothes and bony feet sticking out of the duvet.

Frankly, Harry feels immensely uncomfortable. How does one react to seeing their former enemy, whom you and your friends on many occasions were almost murdered by, who bullied you for years, was on the opposing side of the war, yet, at the same time, was someone you couldn’t bear to see dead? It’s a complex and loaded question. Let alone one to tackle in such an intimate situation, as they are currently. Harry never wished to know what kind of pyjamas Malfoy prefers to sleep in. Maybe Ron can obliviate him in the morning. 

“Hey.” He says, like a clown, in a moment of panic. May as well be civil. It is better than the alternative, and maybe Mcgonagall will be pleased enough to let him switch dorms.

Malfoy just looks him up and down in assessment, seemingly unimpressed, before rolling his grey eyes and turning over. Harry stands dumbfounded at this rejection until it appears Malfoy has fallen asleep, breathing quiet but repetitive fucking sounds that make Harry want to throw him in the Black Lake. He’d fit in there. The Merfolk are an ugly bunch too.

Fine. He won’t play nice, happy Hogwarts then.

He yanks his curtains shut in frustration, but trips over himself when he gets his feet stuck in the trailing fabric. As he lands on his arse, he hears Justin snickering next to him. He flips off the Hufflepuff and climbs onto his crisp and icy sheets, missing the undemanding company of his friends. Alone, he succumbs to the terrors of the night and the wind howls like packs of wolves outside. Malfoy's soft snores fill the barren room. 

\------------

When Harry awakes, he thinks that the total amount of sleep he received last night would probably amount to no more than an hour. At one point, he had gone to try and rest in the warmer lights of the bathroom as a means to escape the roaring wind, which reminded him so strongly of those long, stretched out days camping with Ron and Hermione. He had grasped his head in his hands, curled on the floor of the shower stall and recalling the sense of hopelessness that had hounded him in those relentless weeks. It doesn’t help to ease Harry’s isolation when he remembers the way that he and Ron had grossly despised each other in those moments of fury and despair, and how Hermione had privately wanted to follow him, away from Harry. 

He finds it strange that back in Hogwarts, he is finding it easier to block out the memories of the battle itself. Rather, he is tantalised by nightmares, both in sleep and consciousness, of the run, the fleeing, the year prior where everything was bleak and wreaked with dread. He supposes perhaps it is because Hogwarts feels changed. Maybe Mcgonagall’s reforms were a helpful idea, after all.

Malfoy has left already, despite it being only around seven AM on a Saturday. Harry wonders whether he is a morning person, or whether he had just made it his business to be gone by the time Harry awoke. The latter would not shock him after their awkward interaction the night before. He had concluded at some point in his fits of fear that it would be simpler to return to their disdain for each other, than any model of civility.

“Hey, Harry,” smiles Justin from beside him, rubbing his eyes, “Sleep well?”

“Yeah great thanks, you?” Harry lies and produces a weak smile. Justin appears a little frightened, so he thinks it most likely did not have the desired effect of reassurance.

“Alright, yeah. Tough luck about Malfoy, what a ponce. Tony is alright though. I think he’s left already. An early bird, that one.”

Harry admits to not really knowing Anthony Goldstein and he and Justin converse easily and agreeably, snug in their billowing dens of linen. He had not expected it, remembering the snobby, upper-class boy of their youth. Now, it’s pleasant. It lights a glimmer of hope for the year he had thought would be filled with secluded nights, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to. Maybe he has found a companion here. He and Justin have spoken before, but only briefly, save that whole Parseltongue fiasco from second year. Harry notes absently that Justin is quite attractive when he smiles, all auburn curls and pearly teeth. 

Justin pulls a device out of his bedside table drawer, and Harry recognises it as a Muggle smartphone, which Justin informs him has been adapted for Magical use. Ashamedly, he is absolutely clueless on how to use it and Justin attempts at giving him a trial. Harry quickly gets the hang of it and he entertains the mental image of Ron and his thick thumbs trying to press down the fiddly keys. Excitedly, he thinks of the number that Erin had given him whilst in Hyde Park and he resolves to stir up that famous Gryffindor courage in order to ask Justin if he might be able to contact her. Her sparkling eyes and freckles, lightly splattered like paint on an artist’s apron, had ignited a peace inside of him that he had not thought possible any longer.

“Right, I’m off to breakfast. Meeting Hannah and Neville, I think,” grins Justin, “wish me luck in being the third-wheel.” he departs, putting on his tie hurriedly and both he and Harry are stunned by it’s sudden alterations. Instead of being striped in the individual house colours, their ties are now transformed into a light orange, with a brown bear in the centre of the Hogwarts crest. It looks out of place, surreal, and something flips in Harry’s stomach at the solidity of his house being abandoned. 

At ten AM, Harry is alone in the dorm and he trudges out of bed. He is walking to the toilet when he identifies a strange object at the foot of Malfoy’s bed. Suspicious- this habit never truly goes away- he goes to examine it.

Upon observation, he snorts, unable to contain his laughter. Malfoy has a soft toy. A dragon. It’s small, perhaps he thought nobody would have seen it, but it’s emerald scales have betrayed it’s master in their vibrancy. Under his amusement, he is relatively perplexed. Why the fuck does _Malfoy_ of all people, the heartless dickhead that he is, sleep with a cuddly toy?

He places it back onto the sheets meticulously, wanting Malfoy to pick up on it's deliberate arrangement when he returns. A sick and shameful part of him is thrilled at the argument that he knows they will have once Malfoy realises his careless mistake. He has always been able to rely on the twat for a brawl when he needs one most. And it is now, more than ever, that Harry desires these constants- even if it ends with him with a black eye, no matter how fucked up that makes him. It will only truly feel like Hogwarts again once he and Malfoy settle back into their rivalry.

He straightens out the toy, ignoring the fact that it really is quite sweet, and that he would not mind one himself. Malfoy has a plush _dragon_ \- complete with comically large cartoonish eyes and a spiky tail. He cannot believe it. Wonders truly never cease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and comments it is so appreciated xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry finds something out about justin and interacts with draco properly for the first time :) xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii hope you enjoy this! harry and draco get their first proper interaction and we learn a little about an issue harry is struggling with

After his discovery of Malfoy’s stuffed pet, Harry had had no clue what to do with the rest of his day. He had waited for Malfoy to show up, anticipating a reaction that would have fueled Harry’s sudden hunger for a fight. Alas, the bastard was frustratingly absent from both the common room and the dormitory the entire day, and this left Harry feeling lost and a little disappointed. He was overwhelmingly bored, and concerned that if he stayed still for too long he may begin to deteriorate. So far the unfamiliarity of his sleeping quarters had both managed to unsettle him, in their strangeness, and comfort him, as he has no traumatic memories associated with them. Harry had been festering in his bed for a while, glaring at the plush dragon perched opposite him on Malfoy’s perfectly folded sheets, when the general sense of tediousness which hung around the room made the decision for him that he needed to leave. So he had exited the dorms, with no goal in mind other than keeping his mind at bay.

Now on his wander around the castle, he gazes wistfully upon the first years buzzing from corridor to corridor. They seem to share a hive mind, swarms of young bees congregating in groups only; no child appears left behind. It’s heartwarming, all things considered. However, whilst they still retain that limitless energy that only eleven year olds seem to have the power to muster up, they do appear more subdued than normal, somehow. A sandy haired, thin girl hurries past him and he wonders whether she was the sister of the boy whom Harry had seen die, their eyes locked as he fell. A silly thought, but they shared the same hair colour at least, so it could have been possible. His heart clenches painfully as she smiles at him on her way.

As he walks down the steps from the entrance hall, a huddle of girls are crowded around their friend, whose shaking shoulders give the impression that she is sobbing deeply. He witnesses a brief moment of lunacy from himself in which he wants to ask them why she is crying- some perverse side of him needing others to be sharing his pain. It would make him feel less alone though it is a horrible idea, really. But then he notices one particularly sharp looking girl, dressed in a Ravenclaw tie, glaring daggers at a boy who is sheepishly smiling back from across the courtyard. The strength of her glower still manages to wither Harry’s insides, despite the fact that he isn’t even the poor lad on the receiving end. In the midst of a deep sob, the crying girl looks up to flip the boy off.

Ah. Relationship drama, perhaps? Not every tear is a result of deep war trauma, Harry, he reminds himself. Most people have normal struggles, with normal lives and normal levels of misery. As opposed to the crippling anguish that causes his body and mind to collapse on an almost daily basis- that is. It is strangely humbling to put into perspective how ridiculous he is.

Dragging him out of his stupor, a finger prods his back lightly and he whips around to see a curious face shining up at him. Before him is a first year Hufflepuff boy, with a face peppered in moles, and sporting inquisitive blue eyes which are currently staring up at Harry unnervingly. 

“Is it true that you actually died and came back to life?” he asks, humming with eagerness.

His round cheeks, flushed with innocence, have clearly not yet seen the fumbling first use of a razor. Harry cannot believe that a child this bloody young can be so desensitised to the question, as if it is an everyday occurrence and not some freakish defiance of nature which still keeps Harry up at night. 

“Uh-” he falters, scrambling for the appropriate answer and not finding it, “Kind of? I don’t know.”

How is he supposed to know how to respond to that? For starters, he barely understands the answer himself. And secondly, he would really rather jump off the Astronomy tower than be here, discussing the complexities of his encounter with Death, with an eleven year old boy whom he has never met before. He looks perplexed and dissatisfied at Harry’s half answer and the expectation of a follow-up is weighing, so Harry inches away, towards the bottom of the steps. Today is not the day to ponder about whether he should be alive or not. What ifs are dangerous, he has learnt. He thinks it certainly feels like the right time to avert an existential crisis.

Moving through the courtyard, he waves awkwardly at the numerous people who greet him. He feels awful about it, but he swears that he has never met at least two thirds of them. Indeed, Neville, Justin and Hannah are sharing a late lunch on an old and crumbling stone bench. Justin signals for him to come over, seemingly desiring to be saved from third-wheeling. Well, never let it be said that Harry doesn’t live up to his title. _Saviour_ , he snorts. What a load of shit. Unwillingly, he goes to join them.

“Hey, guys,” he says flatly, wishing he had more to contribute to the group other than his sombre demeanour. He hopes that if he is fated to woe, he is at least giving off a brooding and mysterious aura- _like that of Malfoy_ , his brain pipes up unhelpfully. Ginny had once told him that his thick and straight eyebrows just made him look perpetually angry.

“Hey, Harry,” cheeps Neville joyfully as Justin nods to him with smiling crinkled eyes, a sandwich in his mouth. Hannah greets him with a warm expression and gestures for him to sit down next to her. He does so uncomfortably, but Hannah doesn’t seem to mind and just shuffles up to make more room for him. She has the kind of quiet and trustworthy smile that dispels all of your tension, fading all the aches and pressures- until you are just left with a tender happiness fluttering around your body. Her button nose wiggles and she clasps his knee quickly, addressing his arrival; he thinks contentedly that she is perfect in every way for Neville.

It is a sunny day- unexpectedly so after the cruel storm of last night. Basking in the rays, like a flower after a long spell of rain, Harry contemplates the idea of running away to a hot country and setting up residence in the countryside there. He could spend all his days like this- warming the cold inside of him, and learning to unthaw his muscles from their broken state. He imagines a stream trickling through a wide garden, whose unending trees and tweeting birds are privy to his eyes only. Perhaps he would take up gardening, or something else physical in nature that could keep his mind at rest. The appeal of it almost has him running to the nearest Floo, and Harry has to restrain himself from rushing off with great difficulty. Logically, he knows that denying the orders of both Mcgonagall and Kingsley would spell out his death sentence in big, bold, underlined letters. His stay at Hogwarts must be endured, however depressed that may make him feel. 

Still, he holds the dream in the back of his mind, wondering whether perhaps Erin could stand to accompany him, if he ever manages to see her again. Under no circumstances would he wish for Hermione and Ron to join him- they would be a nightmare, he knows, with their sickeningly googly eyes and roaming hands. He had never wanted to know less about their sex life than he did when Ron had drunkenly informed him, in excruciating detail, of their first time together. It had been so dreadful that Harry had almost managed to forget every other terrifying thing that had ever happened to him, in light of the horror he felt in the face of Ron’s enthusiastic story. He had told Ron sternly that he never wanted to hear of Hermione’s genitals ever again in his life. Death would be too soon, in his opinion. It was positively mortifying for them both, as Ron had proven in the way his cheeks blazed bright red the next morning. 

Shaking off the chilling thought, he tries to tune into the conversation between Justin, Hannah and Neville.

“My Father wasn’t happy, obviously, and that is a gross understatement. He kicked me out. Mother was upset too but I could tell she didn’t agree with his decision,” says Justin morosely, in that slightly snooty way which only exists in those with wealthy upbringings. Like Malfoy. Harry laughs under his breath darkly when he realises how aghast Malfoy would be to have something in common with a Muggleborn. He wonders whether they have anything else in common, like an adoration for soft toys.

“Oh, Justin. I’m so sorry,” says Hannah comfortingly, “You can come and stay with me or Neville during the holidays if you want somewhere to stay other than the castle.”

Harry feels like he has missed an important chunk of the conversation.

“No, it’s OK. Thank you though for offering,” says Justin, “I’m probably staying with Elliot, if his parents can stand to be around me after what they said. He thinks they’re embarrassed,” he rearranges his robes and adds, “As they should be.”

“What do you mean? What did they say?” asks Neville. During the course of the discussion, Harry’s mind desperately tries to fill in the missing gaps. He tries, and fails.

“Yeah, uh, he says that they said that we are an abomination of nature, and that they wish that I had never come into their lives,” he trails off dishearteningly and both Neville and Hannah audibly gasp at this. Widened eyes, Justin hurriedly says, “They’re kind people, really. I think they’re just scared for him because they live in such a conservative town. It isn’t really safe for people like us.”

“Still though, that’s tough, Justin. I’m sorry. I thought Muggles were generally quite accepting of you lot.” says Neville.

“They are on the whole. More than wizards, but his family are strict Christians. And mine are just full of arseholes,” and then, they all share a sympathetic laugh. Except Harry, who just sits there like an idiot, not quite understanding the full picture but feeling like he should be. Justin has been evicted from his house, but why? And what has he done to earn the disdain of his friend’s family? Sometimes Harry feels so stupid it almost makes him crawl under his bed in shame.

Neville huffs, “Religion. Merlin, it’s so confusing to me. Wizards don’t have gods in the same way. I suppose when all miracles can just be explained by magic, it sorta takes the mystery out of it. Still, that’s a Pureblood thing, I guess. Lots of Half-bloods and Muggleborns are religious, so maybe the practise might get adopted.”

Suddenly, Harry can’t take it anymore. His mind has been so mind-numbingly bored for so many months that he feels as if he is going into overdrive with expectation and information. “Sorry, what happened, Justin?” Harry inquires, feeling incredibly embarrassed in spite of their considerate and friendly faces, “You’ve been kicked out? How come?”

Justin startles and then laughs, face scrunched in amusement. He must see Harry’s face fall because he rushes to justify himself, still chuckling. “Oh no, Harry, don't worry, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just because I noticed you looking really confused a couple of minutes ago and I’ve just been waiting. Sorry if that makes me cruel,” and the twinkle of humour in his eyes settles Harry’s anxiety.

“Twat,” he laughs, a little stilted, “Are you going to tell me then, or shall I just die of old age first?”

“OK, OK, damn, give a man a second,” Justin responds, “Basically, my parents have disowned me because they found out that I’m, uh, gay.”

Upon hearing this, Harry feels a little taken aback and in him, arises an unwanted need to squirm away that he doesn’t quite understand. Not from Justin, however. But from- well...to be honest, he isn’t quite sure…the memories it lays bare?

Of course, he is aware of the concept of sexuality and he knows, has _seen_ , that there are people out there who identify as Justin does. The knowledge has always resided in the back of his mind, smothered by Harry’s aversion to thinking about it. But he is immediately and unwillingly thrown back to his childhood- days which blurred together, hiding in the gloom of his cupboard, and overhearing Uncle Vernon curse the gay couple who had just moved in down the street. 

“They’re a plague on this neighbourhood, Petunia,” he had blustered, pink neck looking as if it was about to burst. Peering through the grate in his cupboard door, he had watched as Aunt Petunia sympathetically agreed, rubbing his back in solidarity. Harry hadn’t understood his rage at all. On the days where he was forced to do work in the front garden, he often saw the pair, hand in hand, walking along the pavement. They looked head over heels in love with each other and, every few minutes, would lean in for a soft and intimate kiss. Harry had thought that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could learn a lesson from this affectionate and seemingly harmless relationship. Their marriage consisted of bullying Harry and spoiling Dudley, and that was about it.

Alas, Vernon’s insults prevailed and Harry had grown confused, and even a little scared, at the way that they made his stomach turn. Once, as he was on route to visit Mrs Figg, he had encountered a boy, a few years above Harry at his school, shirtless and lifting some boxes on his front lawn. He had just moved in, and it was a sweltering hot day. Harry’s heart had sped up in time with the bead of sweat that was dripping down the boy’s forehead. Conflict and fear had risen inside him, and he had sprinted off just as the boy had been about to greet him. Harry had vowed to never walk on that side of the road again and learnt, in obedience to his inner voice, which mocked him in a tone that sounded eerily like Uncle Vernon, the art of suppressing desire. The day that he first wanked over a girl, he had been hit by relief like a smack of fresh air- _I’m not gay_. He refuses to remember the instances in which a flash of broad pecs, or an angular jawline, would creep into his fantasies as well.

A little panicked, for reasons he doesn’t care to dwell on, but realising his silence is deafening after Justin’s admission, Harry speaks up. He furiously thinks of Uncle Vernon’s prejudice, and curses himself for entertaining the hateful comments that had tainted his mind like a paralysing disease as a child. “That’s horrible, I’m so sorry. Is Elliot your boyfriend then?” and the word _boyfriend_ hangs heavy in his mouth.

Justin sighs, clearly relieved at Harry’s acceptance, and he feels guilty at his initial reaction. It is the cherry on top of the cake that the rock in his stomach plummets a little harder at Justin’s admittedly attractive smile.

“Yeah, he is. We’ve been friends ever since I was small but over summer we started darting.” 

“Does he know that you’re a wizard?” Harry asks.

“Yeah I told him last month, once I found out I was coming back to Hogwarts. I put it off as long as possible but he wasn’t taking any more rubbish excuses.”

“That must’ve been a pleasant conversation. How did he take it?” says Neville.

“He didn’t. He ran away and when I finally found him, he refused to talk to me,” admits Justin with affection in his eyes that Harry doesn't understand, “After a while, he came to his senses and just had one request: that I make him fly.”

“And did you?”

“Yeah,” Justin grins, “And then I made him fall on his arse. Unfortunately, I made a bit of a misjudgement. Do you want to see where he landed on me? I have a fucking bruise!” and he lifts his robe to show the three of them. 

Neville swats at him, laughing and teasing, “Put it away, Justin! I’m not into you like that!” and the sun beams brightly on them all, as Justin jokingly gestures as if to unzip his trousers which elicits screams and yelps from Hannah and Neville. Harry just smiles and tries to ignore that he actually _would very much like it if Justin could unzip his trousers_. Vernon screams, hurling violent offences at him in a wild frenzy of both memories, and imagination. Behind his fake laughter, as Justin’s plonks himself in Neville’s lap, chuckling gleefully all the way, Harry's mind crumples into a wasteland of shameful anguish.

\-------

At dinner that evening, Harry feels a vast stretch of distance between himself and the people around him. Their words and conversation all merge into one hum, which rings in his ears and grates at his skin, almost itchy in the sense that Harry has the inexplicable and demanding urge to scratch at his whole body. The only definitive syllables he can discern are those of Uncle Vernon. They pound at his head the entire meal; after a while, he acknowledges, without feeling, that he has dropped his spoon in his soup. He feels, but doesn’t see, Hermione’s watchful eyes. A prickling sensation alerts him that she is looking at him, and that he should probably act normal, and fucking eat his fucking dinner like a happy and functioning person- but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He thought that the worst of his memories came from the battle. He thought that nothing could top the bleak recognition he had felt in the face of his death- he had stood there, alone, in the Forbidden Forest, eyes still seeing the chaos and gore from the fight, ears still hearing the screams of torment. But yet again, his mind has managed to surprise him. He’s grateful, truly.

It is only when Malfoy slides in, late again, with such an undeniably magnetic presence, that Harry is pulled out his trance. After waiting for so long in the dorm room and subconsciously looking for him all day amongst the castle grounds, Harry doesn’t really want an argument anymore. The anger and restlessness in him that he had this morning has fizzled out into a more familiar feeling of melancholy and dull aching.

He’s so different now, Harry notes. Before the war and throughout their school years, he had walked with such confidence. Even in sixth year, a lot of the time he had swaggered about, obviously feeling a sense of self-importance, however terrified he also was. But the current Malfoy, the one who is clearly feeling the impact of the war, much to Harry’s indignation- _why does he get to feel upset by it?_ \- seems quiet and unassuming, even if he is still a pompous twat. His lean frame shuffles onto the end of the eighth year bench and Harry can just about see him reach out for a bread roll from where he is in the middle. The people around Malfoy lean away as he nibbles the roll, and Harry cannot make sense of the small flare of anger that sparks up at that. 

He remembers Malfoy’s dragon and a little life gets breathed back into him again as he huffs a laugh. Watching Malfoy in his peripheral vision, he collects his soup-soaked spoon from the bowl and begins to eat. Hermione seems satisfied, if the loss of her gaze is any indication. The meal is enjoyable, but Harry’s mind cannot settle, for it is suddenly rampant with curiosity for the boy that has become a stranger.

\-------

It’s only the second night back at Hogwarts, Harry contemplates, but it feels like he has been here for years already. Preparing for bed is a little easier tonight, now that he has befriended Justin. They brush their teeth together in the bathroom, Justin admitting that he also prefers the Muggle way due to his heritage. There is an unsual moment when Justin compliments Harry's hair, leaving him flushing scarlet. “I’ve always thought that it looks quite artfully messy,” he says, looking at Harry with a sparkle in his eyes. The effect is ruined when Harry hears Malfoy snort at the comment as if it were the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard, walking past them to get something out of the cupboard.

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Harry can’t help but say, through gritted teeth. He feels weirdly embarrassed, like he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. 

Malfoy just flutters his pale eyelashes mockingly, and Harry feels affronted by this _weird, weird_ situation, before ditching the false pretence and rolling his eyes in gross exaggeration. The pale and cool bathroom lights wash out what little colour he has, and he appears more ghostly than ever. As he leaves the room, shadows flit across his high cheekbones and jaw, illuminating the sharp angles of his face and he looks bizarrely ethereal. Harry frowns, because he could have sworn that usually the bathroom has warm, yellow lighting. He must be mistaken, because the bathroom simply _cannot_ be giving Malfoy his own, complimentary setting. It’s unfair, and a clear demonstration of treachery from the castle- to make Harry have abhorrent thoughts about Malfoy and his fucking bone structure. Unbelievable.

Justin guffaws when the lights switch back to their dingy, normal colour upon his exit. Harry sighs and brushes his teeth even more vigorously.

Eventually, just to make this spectacular night even better, Justin betrays Harry in leaving him alone with Malfoy. He utters some excuse about needing to owl Elliot, but it’s all just words to Harry. As far as he is concerned, there has been some mighty treason committed this evening.

It’s deathly silent apart from the noise of Malfoy turning the pages of his book. Harry had somehow never imagined that Malfoy would do anything as humane as read for pleasure. This whole experience is remarkably unnerving and he wishes with great fervour that he could go back to a simpler time. One where he is blissfully unaware of the length of Malfoy’s skincare routine- it’s ungodly long, Harry will confide- and of the fact that he likes to read before bed. Earlier, Harry had been deathly disappointed to find that the dragon was not where he had left it- perched, blatantly obvious and _green_ , in the expanse of Malfoy's bed. Whilst not knowing definitively, he can doubtlessly assume that Malfoy had arrived back in the common room at some point in the day, hidden it, and is now hoping desperately that nobody has noticed. As if that was possible- the beast is sparkling emerald, for Merlin's sake.

Scanning his eyes for the toy, he sees nothing. He pretends to not be looking and has a crack at just casually laying in bed, until he gives up and makes a cough to grab Malfoy's attention. In the back of his mind, Cindy the spider scolds him for forgoing the decision that they had made together. _I thought you weren't going to pay attention to him?_ , she says. It's a fair point but Harry chooses not to listen.

“So,” Harry says, unable to hold it in any longer. He ignores Malfoy’s glare, not giving a fuck whether he has interrupted a good part in the book, or whatever, “You’re the owner of a toy dragon? I didn’t think of you as the ‘pet’ type, you know.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond for a moment. Harry thinks he sees something akin to humiliation flicker in his eyes, but it disappears and he distorts his face into a scowl. It all seems a little practised to Harry. A bit too robotic. Putting his book down on the duvet, Malfoy narrows his eyes dramatically. He seems to assess the situation, and then answers in a manner so calm it completely shocks Harry.

“Potter, I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he says in that posh drawl of his, looking straight past Harry rather than in his eyes. Harry realises he hasn’t heard his voice up until now, and it ignites something inside of him. _What_ that is, Harry has no clue. It sounds a little lower than he remembers, not so whiny. Still just as infuriating.

“What? Don’t bullshit, Malfoy! I saw it earlier!” Harry proclaims, frustrated. It’s not like he even particularly feels like fighting with Malfoy anymore, but the idea that he can be dismissed so easily doesn’t sit well with him.

“Really? Hmm,” says Malfoy, “Perhaps you’re going mad, Potter,” and he raises an arched eyebrow. Whether this is an invitation for a challenge, Harry isn’t sure, but he takes it as one anyway.

“I’m not!” But as he says it, the light in the bathroom flickers madly, before turning off. The slight smell of burning that wafts through the door really doesn’t help prove his point.

“No, I suppose not. After all, unstable magic does indicate one’s sanity.” And since when had he become so quick-witted? Where is the spoilt and hot-tempered boy of Harry’s school years? Harry knew how to handle him. He feels at a loss with this boy, all blank eyes and flat voice, in front of him.

“It’s not usually unstable,” mumbles Harry, confused at the direction that this conversation has gone in, and he grasps at an opportunity to gain back the upper-hand, “Only when I’m dealing with enormous tossers who still sleep with teddies at night.” He winces at his awful and ungraceful comeback.

Malfoy just snorts drily, “That’s nice, Potter. I wonder who that could be.”

“You, Malfoy. I saw it, all green and scaly, at the foot of your bed this morning. Looked really worn from cuddling.” Harry has completely made that up. In fact, the dragon looked almost brand new when he had picked it up earlier that day, but his insults are lacking and he feels like he is sorely losing whatever battle this has become. 

“Whatever you say,” he finally looks at Harry, the cold and hard film over his gaze reminiscent of the trial, and that split second where he had turned to Harry amongst all the formalities. As he had then, now, Harry silently begs for him to break the eye contact- it’s too intense, too full of emotions that Harry cannot read. Thankfully, Malfoy grants his wish and he turns away, “I will be sleeping now, Potter.” And at that, he waves his wand, which Harry notices is different from the one he had owned throughout Hogwarts, and the curtains are spelled shut. For several beats, Harry just stares at the bed-frame, before aggressively pulling the duvet up around him and lying down, irked, on the sheets. 

That night Malfoy doesn’t snore, and Harry suspects that they are as wide awake as each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thanks so much for reading please leave comments and kudos because this takes a long time to write and it gives me more motivation when i know people are enjoying it :) xxx would mean a lot


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry texts erin and we get some more harry and draco interaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hope you enjoy this!!!!!!!!!! xxxxx

The first weekend of Hogwarts has passed. Now, Harry faces, with dread, the prospect of _lessons_. He had never envisaged being back in a classroom again- for learning purposes, that is.

Of course he will be expected to sit through Auror training like a good, obedient little Saviour. Privately, he is dreading the idea. It seems laughable that anyone could visualise him as an Auror, as Ron and Hermione especially so often do. Harry has gotten into the habit of just smiling and nodding along whenever the subject arises, willing the sick feeling he has at the thought of going back into the field to settle. He supposes it will probably be alright. Ron will stick with him, and they will be the crime-solving, villain-defeating, heroic duo that the rest of Wizarding society expects. 

It’s Monday morning and he is currently trying to muster up enough courage to leave the confinements of his bed. Around him, rustles of activity as his roommates get ready alert him that he should wait a little longer to emerge. He doesn’t feel like sporting an uncomfortable half-smile, nor does he have the energy for small talk.

Sunday had been terribly awkward. There exists a weird tension between the four of them which makes Harry want to tear out his hair. He could probably spare some. Truly, he swears it grows quicker than everyone else’s, probably in some sort of lifelong rebellion against the memory of Petunia, with her sharp jabs and scissors. Whenever he takes a _Diffindo_ to the hair, he seems to wake up with it twice the length it had been before the chop. It’s clearly living with its own trauma, which he can understand at least.

Goldstein flits in and out the dorm, cordial enough but not appearing to care for chatter. Sometimes Harry forgets that he even shares the room with him, as awful as that may seem, but the boy- _man_ now, he guesses- has a habit of making himself scarce just as Harry has worked up the energy to make conversation. He doesn’t really mind- Goldstein owes him nothing, after all- and these days, he prefers to keep to his close friends anyway, lest he has a panic attack. Harry isn’t sure whether he could ever have been considered a social butterfly but he thinks, a little regretfully, that he had certainly been a great deal less closed off than he is now. Perhaps it’s his fault- perhaps Goldstein doesn’t feel welcomed. 

Ugh. It’s no wonder. Not when Harry isn’t even making the minimal effort task of opening his curtains to bid them all a good morning. 

He would skip Malfoy, of course, who has steadily ignored all of them, much to Harry’s frustration. His stoic face and poised expressions seem to deliberately miss Harry’s gaze, turning from him whenever there is any chance of interaction. The snubbing annoys Harry to no end. Yes, he had promised himself before coming that he would dismiss Malfoy, no matter how many taunts he would throw at Harry. And it isn’t that Harry isn’t pleased to see the need for such measures proved unnecessary. Candidly, he hasn’t the energy- but to not even warrant one single insult? Harry can practically feel the bruise on his ego. His plan was to go on as he always has, but apparently he cannot pretend that everything is normal, because in a sane world, Draco Malfoy wouldn’t act as if Harry doesn’t exist, or rather that he does, but as just some irritating bug on his shoulder. In a sane world, Harry would mean something to Malfoy- even if that something is _rival_ , rather than _bestest and most dearest friend_.

However, he had been pleased to note that Malfoy’s shoulders had been as stiff as stone on Sunday evening, back snapped straight, and clearly listening as Harry and Justin recounted the names of the returning students. He had clearly been trying to appear disinterested, but the distance he has been trying to set between himself and the rest of the school had shattered at the mention of Zabini. 

“He’s a tosser. I know he wasn’t technically on the Dark side during the war, but he may well have been. It’s obvious the only reason his family didn’t dedicate themselves completely is due to some political power play. I’m all for forgiveness but he’s so smug, as if he’s a saint. It gets on my nerves.” Justin had said, justifiably in Harry’s opinion, and Malfoy had frozen solid. Harry had moved to change the subject as subtly as possible, in order to avoid a fight. Whilst he may have been itching for a go with Malfoy the day prior, he wouldn’t wish such a pathetic brawl on Justin. Those pointy elbows do look as if they could poke an eye out.

At least from this instance he was able to deduct that Malfoy is, in fact, not a robot, as Harry had begun to mistake him for.

He is jerked back into reality as Malfoy leaves the room. As quiet as he is, he is easily identifiable from the clacking of his boots, probably Dragonhide, and probably preposterously expensive, the twat. Goldstein must follow, because somebody else’s footsteps echo after him.  
Justin seems to wait a little on his bed, perhaps testing the waters to see whether Harry will join him. Harry can just about determine his faint figure through the material of his curtains, drawn up in a silhouette next to him. He knows he should get up. He won’t. Not today. Today is a bad day- he’s aware of it already. The ache in his brain, the freezing over of his mind, the way his limbs have gone soft- they are all indications. And he feels fatigued, despite the fact that he has only just awoken. 

The return to Hogwarts was never going to be an easy ride, but he had hoped that his functioning streak would last longer than a weekend. _Recovery isn’t linear_ , he has to remind himself again, but the memory of Hermione’s words fall upon deaf ears.

Recovery isn’t linear, yes, he knows, but it seems to have taken another form entirely. It’s not a curved arrow. It’s not a zig-zag, or a circle. It’s a full stop, an unbudging blot in the fragile paper of his life, and he’s stuck in the ink of it.

Justin sighs a little and leaves too, closing the door gently behind him and whispering as he does, “See you, Harry.”

\----------

When he ultimately doesn’t show up for breakfast, Ron comes to the dorm to get him, with a levitated plate of food trailing behind him. It smells delectable, a true Hogwarts breakfast, but the scent makes Harry feel queasy. 

“It’s ‘Mione’s orders, mate. I’m sorry,” Ron says apologetically.

Harry takes a moment to answer, allowing the lapse in his brain to dominate for a second, and then does no more than grunt and mutter “It’s alright. Not your fault.”

“So, are you, uh, coming to lesson?” Ron hesitates, allowing space for the answer that Harry never gives, “‘Mione, and me as well, think it’s probably a good idea- considering it’s the first one of the year, and all that. I don’t think Mcgonagall would be very happy if we missed it.” Harry appreciates the solidarity from Ron in the implication that he would, however grudgingly, miss the lesson with him should Harry wish it.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get up in a second.” 

Nothing happens.

“Harry?”

“Yes. OK.”

“I have toast, beans, eggs and bacon for you, they’re pretty good,” says Ron and Harry pointedly doesn’t mention that he more often than not cannot even manage to butter his own toast- so has it been buttered? Where is Kreacher when you need him? So many questions with pitiable answers.

“Thanks.” Harry scrunches his face tightly as the pounding headache grows. 

Again, nothing happens.

“Mate?”

The cogs in his mind still only just processing the fact that he is being asked to get out of bed, Harry snaps, rather unfairly, “Yes alright, Ron! I get it. Can you just give me a second?” 

Seeing the wounded look on Ron’s face, Harry rushes to apologise, awash in guilt. He is being a dick, he is painstakingly aware, and Ron is fulfilling his role as both best friend and boyfriend perfectly. It’s just a lot- all of it.

And so Harry forces himself up, grabbing some toast from the hovering plate, and just about makes it through the day.

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As soon as lessons are over, Harry trudges back to the common room in as quick a hurry as his body permits. His whole being hurts, from the sole of his numb feet, to the top of his finger-scrunched hair. The lessons were gruelling, painful, and too many times he had zoned out in disassociation, only to freak out as someone's clothes brushed against him, or as a sudden noise shook him. Ron has headed out to play a game of Quidditch and Harry has never run to escape an invitation so speedily in his life. The engulfing fire which had eaten the posts and stalls like a raving beast flash in and out of his mind whenever he sees the pitch from a window. Up close, it would be even worse, he knows.

He startles upon his entrance to the common room, encountering a shocking sight. Dean and Seamus are heatedly making out on the sofa, entwined in each other’s grasp and clearly assuming that they are alone. Harry is confused. He thought that they were both straight. Up until recently, he had even thought that Ginny had been going out with Dean. All pointers say otherwise now, as Dean moves his hand up Seamus’ shirt and begins to lean over him, pinning him to the cushions. The room is silent other than the obscene noises of skin against skin, and lips against lips.

It is when Seamus moans, lightly but erotically enough that Harry begins to squirm, that he indicates his presence with a choked cough. 

“Hey, guys. You, uh, having fun?” And he flinches at how awkward he sounds. Couldn’t he have just left them alone without saying anything? They seemed to be content enough to ignore his being- would have never known he was here. Stupid Harry. 

Seamus looks up from under Dean, shuffles a little bit so that he is sitting straighter- but other than that, makes no apparent movements to remove himself from his entangled state. He grins, face flushed red and hair askew. Dean is surprisingly bashful, for the broad and masculine guy that he is, twisting his head away from Harry. His attempts at covering up his embarrassment are futile- Harry can see the heat rushing across his dark skin. Or perhaps that is just a result of his, uh, predicament. It looks rather comfortable from where Harry is standing.

“Hey, Harry! Care to join?” says Seamus cheekily, almost causing Harry’s body to go into some sort of cardiac arrest. Dean slaps him playfully on the chest in horror; Harry wishes he could get one in too, as revenge for the wobbly feeling that overcame him when Seamus opened his gob..

“Stop, Seamus!” Dean says, “Shut up, will you?”

“Of course. Sorry, dear,” and he mimes locking his lips with a theatrical flare, finishing the performance by pretending to throw the key away. The affection on Dean’s face as his smiles down at him is too much for Harry to bear; it reminds him of the doting couple that used to live down Privet Drive, the poor sods. It couldn’t have been much fun- what with the judgemental and intrusive collection of neighbours on the street. This is all very odd, he thinks. 

“D-don’t let me stop you from your, uh, fun,” stutters Harry, repeating the same stupid sentiments as earlier. Seamus laughs but rapidly reenacts the lip-locking sequence when Dean looks daggers at him in warning. Couldn’t they just move to the dorm room? There is plenty of sweet, sweet privacy there, where upon their arrival, innocent eyes across the castle would be spared. Like Harry’s, for example.

“Hmm, yes, we could, but we like it out here, don’t we Dean? Pretty exciting? The risk of it all, all those innocent eyes just waiting to come in,” he waggles his eyebrows and Harry realises, with an internal smack to his forehead, that he has accidentally spoken his inner monologue aloud.

“Shut it, Seamus. You’re right, Harry, it’s just that our dorm seems to be plagued with a Slytherin meeting right now. Could be a cult thing, for all I know. All I know is that me and Seamus cannot be there right now. Dangerous stuff.”

Harry nods stiltedly, not really hearing what Dean is saying, and stumbles out of the room just as the pair break into giggles. It is in the nick of time, if the gasps and continued ruffles of clothing ringing down the corridor are any indication. 

When he gets back to the dorm-room, Malfoy is perched on his bed, writing something on a piece of parchment. His long legs are crossed and boots kicked off, the picture of relaxation. And one that Harry doesn’t wish to see. Clearly, he has not been anticipating any visitors- he is slouched, the epitome of casual. As such, Harry feels like he has seen a tortoise without it’s shell. Malfoy’s don’t _do_ casual, he is sure of it. Despite the fact that he, of course, got the impression, when he last visited their most cosy and _not at all_ ostentatious home, that the family spend their spare time sitting around on plump cushions, dressed head to toe in their pyjamas, swapping fairy tales. The mounted elf heads had really helped him envisage the image. He cheers slightly at the image of Lucius Malfoy being forced to endure the Tales of Beedle the Bard. 

Remembering something that Dean had said, Harry is curious- was Malfoy not invited to this Slytherin meeting in Dean and Seamus’ dorm room? The question gnaws at him but he knows better than to ask. He is quite fond of his head, thanks.

Once he notices Harry, Malfoy’s previously informal expression transforms rather magnificently into an stormy frown. Harry isn’t quite sure what he’s done, other than exist, but he supposes that could be enough to ignite Malfoy’s rage. Considering the usual aura of aloofness, Harry welcomes his fury like he is greeting an old friend. It is just his luck that it is as he thinks this that Malfoy’s countenance snaps back into the facade that Harry has come to know and _hate_. 

Without as much as a simple _hello_ , Malfoy sweeps out of the door, snapping up his paper and marching away. The abruptness of it all has Harry feeling like he has whiplash. Good luck meeting Seamus and Dean, he almost calls after him. 

Something is wrong, and Harry isn’t sure what it is. After a few seconds, he realises that Malfoy’s walk doesn’t sound right, because he isn’t wearing those stupendous boots. In fact, the exact offenders are strewn in front of him, far more messily than Harry would have ever thought Malfoy would permit them to be. They are black leather, with a partial heel, and a dark green stripe lining the sole. Overly-fancy for school, Harry decides, as all his clothes are. Although, he won’t lie and say that his ratty and ancient trainers fare well against them. Still, he can allow their presence if it means that Malfoy is stomping around the castle in just his lavender socks. The idea causes Harry’s mood to lift a bit. It’s too good. 

The fast-paced and hasty plod of Malfoy’s sock-ridden feet signals that he is returning. Harry just stands still, hands behind his back and smirking at the figure striding towards him. Despite an obvious attempt to appear unbothered, a blush creeps high on Malfoy’s cheeks as he comes into view, and it is this bodily betrayal that is revealing of his humiliation. His pale complexion is also extremely telling, letting every blemish and flush be blasted in full view. The juxtaposition of the increasingly darkening pink with his pallor is striking- and equally, hilarious. Biting his lip so as to not comment, Harry watches humorously as Malfoy brushes past him and tries to put on his shoes, still with a calm manner.

Unfortunately, the Fates seem to be working against him today and he seems to struggle to get one of the boots on. His skinny fingers yank at the back of the shoe, but to no avail. The red of his face spreads to his ears, and even they are pointed, like an elf, Harry thinks distractedly- what is in the Malfoy genes? His white shock of hair, worn longer than he used to, Harry notes, keeps falling in his face; as the minutes progress Malfoy pushes it back with ever increasing agitation. 

Time ticks as slowly as the earth spins, and the sense of embarrassment grows too much for even Harry to handle, although he is finding the whole thing incredibly amusing, in a strange, _what is the fuck is happening here _kind of way.__

__Malfoy bites his lip a little as he pulls with more force. If Harry were daft, he would say that it looks as if one of the godforsaken things is actually shrinking with each attempt to force it onto his foot. Wait- actually, it really is. Quite visibly now. Harry almost wants to leave but the peculiarity of the sight before him holds him hostage where he stands. It strikes him as bizarre that Malfoy is letting this display of blatant failure happen in Harry’s presence, but he won’t complain- this is probably a once in a lifetime event. A free pass at seeing a degraded Malfoy._ _

__He ignores the niggle in the back of his brain that tells him that he has actually witnessed that, and it was harrowing. The beaten down and weathered Malfoy from immediately after the war is not something that Harry wants to see again any time soon. Not for a while. Never, even. It was not nearly as satisfying as he had always dreamt it would be._ _

__Malfoy seems to allow himself to clench his fingers a fraction- this is his emotional limit for the day, apparently- before just discarding the boot and stalking straight out of the room with only one on. His walk is tremendously lopsided, but he holds himself as straight as possible whilst he bobs up and down. In all fairness, Harry does think that he probably looks as dignified as one could be, considering the situation._ _

__With one final swish of his robes, Malfoy disappears from view, turning the corner. However, the fading _plod, clack, plod, clack_ of his steps still sounds away down the corridor. Harry listens until the noise falls silent, the ridiculousness of this little escapade bringing him copious amounts of glee. _ _

__Harry stakes out in the dorm room for a bit, not doing much of anything other than resolutely refusing to go back into the common room. He looks dazedly out of the windows to the right, noticing faintly that Professor Sprout is pottering about the greenhouses, with second years in hot pursuit. They are each handling a newborn Mandrake and the memory of their blood-curdling cries is still fresh in his head. He had been so young- they all were. The students he sees now, pointing and laughing at the ugly looking plants with wide and sparkling grins, look so small that Harry is sure that had never been him._ _

__It has probably been at least an hour when Justin comes in, finding Harry still at the window, perched on the armrest of a lonesome chair. The sun is hanging low in the sky and a subdued wash of yellow is settling across the room, so it must be late in the afternoon. He has been glued to the spot, feeling unable to move or find it in himself to care._ _

__“Hey, what are you doing over there?” says Justin brightly and Harry suspects that he is making an effort to be cheerful for Harry’s sake, thanks to his moody conduct from this morning. His heart warms at the thought._ _

__“Hey,” he smiles and remembers something he has been meaning to ask, “Nothing much. Just watching Professor Sprout and the Mandrakes. Can I ask a favour?”_ _

__“Yeah?” replies Justin as he unties his shoes._ _

__“You know your phone? Is there any chance that I could use it briefly. It’s just I met this Muggle and she gave me her phone number but I haven’t been able to contact her yet,” and he crosses his fingers that Justin says yes, “but it’s fine if not. Just wondering.”_ _

__He doesn’t know Erin, not even a little bit. It’s illogical and insane that he actually wants to contact her. In fact, their conversation probably lasted less than ten minutes in total. But it had been peaceful, and a comfort to know that he was in the presence of someone who hasn’t experienced the loaded baggage that every wizard in their current climate knows so well. She wouldn’t fire questions at him about his near-death, and bombard him until he reveals _just how much he misses Dumbledore_. He can thank Rita Skeeter for that thrilling contribution. And he hasn’t made the acquaintance of any other Muggles, other than the obvious, who are a big fat _no_._ _

__“Yeah, of course! Who is she, eh?” leers Justin suggestively._ _

__“It’s not like that at all, she’s just a friend. And not even really that,” Harry laughs, a little uncomfortable, “I swear.”_ _

__Justin shrugs sceptically and goes to get the phone from his draw, “OK, if you say so. It’s specially charmed so that it works in a Magical environment, but sometimes it lags a bit. It’s usually fine though, I have used it plenty of times to get in contact with my family and friends who don’t know that I’m a wizard.”_ _

__He hands it over to Harry and it lies clunky in his hand. Being so used to the slim nature of a wand, the girth of the phone feels weighty and out of place in his grip, but he supposes that for Muggles, it must almost be the substitute. Something you carry with you at all time, something that you cannot part with. The miniature font is printed with _Nokia_ and a rectangular grey screen lights up as Justin turns it on for him._ _

__After a little revised tutorial on how to use it, Harry is punching out the keys with the piece of paper in hand that Erin had shoved at him in Hyde Park. Pressing send feels like a big leap of faith somehow, even if the message is simple. Partly, he had no idea how to put into writing what he wanted to say. Partly, his gigantic thumbs couldn’t be bothered to continue their battle with the buttons any longer. And to think that he had been ready to laugh at Ron using the device- as if he is some kind of an expert himself._ _

__It reads:_ _

___Hey, Erin. It’s Harry from the park, I hope u remember me, otherwise this is awkward. I hope ur doing well and I’m sorry I left in such a hurry at the park. Mayb next time I am in London we cld meet?_ _ _

__Justin helped him with the ‘text talk’, which apparently is the indicator of where you lie on a spectrum, starting with “cool people who you definitely want to reply to” and ending with “absolute losers who you ignore because they sound like your granddad”, to quote Justin’s own words. He feels somehow that this is vaguely embarrassing but, hey, you can’t blame a guy whose only experience with technology comes from the two seconds that he managed to haggle a go on Dudley’s computer, and the ginormous, hefty landline that the Dursley’s owned. Oh and excluding the TV- he is a mastermind in that department, as the well-loved screen in his living room at Grimmauld Place can attest to._ _

__“I’ll let you know when she replies, but don’t be surprised if it’s a while. We don’t necessarily have a functioning mobile service here so we’ll see, I guess,” says Justin._ _

__“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks, Justin,” Harry smiles gratefully at his new friend, but any feelings of amity disappear when Justin jokes that he won’t put up with any sexual messages. Harry swats at him, laughing, and wonders how long it will be until he hears back._ _

__That night, Harry cannot sleep a wink. Maddeningly, his whole body is crying out for sleep in it’s exhausted state, but it still will not come. His day had started out shit, had remained shit, and then became slightly less shit. But, ultimately, his mind and body still retain that infuriating absence of sensation that always comes, without fail, on his bad days. It is as if he is empty, carved out of all substance. People, things, feelings, come and go, fleeting in and out as temporary pleasures. But at the end of the day, Harry is left only half of a person, with a vacant mind that thinks nothing, yet simultaneously exists in permanent misery. It is almost a half state of living. He thinks he had felt more alive when he caught a glimpse of the afterlife, or whatever that place had been, than he does on days like this._ _

__He feels pretty fucking pleased at himself frankly, for attending lessons today. But he knows that he won’t always be so lucky._ _

__Perhaps it is because he is so blank, that the sharp exclamation of anger coming from another room, full of emotion and clear irritation, shocks him._ _

__“Fuck!” A male voice says in annoyance, “Shit. Bollocks. Fuck.”_ _

__And it is the strangest thing. Harry’s body suddenly is alight with eagerness._ _

__“Oh fuck this,” continues the voice, sounding resigned._ _

__Harry creeps out of the bed, finding that there is some energy in his body after all. Call it foolish and you would be right, but he is a sucker for night time excursions and adventures. Old habits die hard, after all._ _

__It is coming from the common room, and he hopes that Dean and Seamus aren’t attempting some kinky and painful sex thing. That would be a step too far in what Harry wants to know about their relationship._ _

__“Shit.” The voice sounds almost sad now, and _so familiar_ \- but he can't quite put his finger on it._ _

__As he approaches the doorway, he sticks to the wall, and curses himself for not dragging out his old invisibility cloak. But he has made it this far now, and whilst the trip to the dorms is quite literally two metres, he cannot tear himself away from the room before him- which is beginning to glow a bright, metallic silver, to Harry’s astonishment. It spreads like a flood, a landslide and a gushing river all at once- and the room assumes an ethereal quality, the metal of the lights and furnishings glinting madly in an almost radiant white glow._ _

__In the middle of the carpet, Malfoy stands with his wand in hand, clutched to his chest in delight. Harry has never seen him look so happy. The expression completely changes his face- the angles and sharp edges of his face softened out by the blatant joy he is beaming with. It’s such a direct contrast to the Malfoy of the last few days that Harry has to do a double take, just to check that it is actually him. Yep- he confirms. Still Malfoy, still pointy and pale in every sense of the word, but completely unlike the dickhead he knows. Harry glances at his feet and notices that he is wearing neither boot, however is still sporting those fashionable lavender socks._ _

__“Yes! Fuck. Yes.” Malfoy whispers quietly, grin widening even further. This exposes his pearly white teeth, which Harry has never seen bared so openly, except to mock and spit scathing insults. His stomach drops, remembering for him, even when his mind refuses to, all the foul comments that mouth has made over the years._ _

__“Fuck, Yes.” Malfoy repeats, breathing in._ _

__The short and clipped phrases are filled with such a sense of happiness that Harry realises the reason he didn’t recognise Malfoy’s voice from the dorm room. He hasn’t heard this raw side of him in a long time- perhaps never, if he truly thinks about it. Lucius probably used to write Malfoy scripts on how to be a pompous arse when he was a schoolboy. He truly doesn’t find it hard to believe, when thinking about all the Pureblood-propaganda Malfoy had spouted over the years. Unless that was all just his genuine thought. But somehow Harry finds that unlikely._ _

__The present Malfoy lifts his wand slightly and Harry moves back, suddenly afraid that he has been spotted. Instead of aiming it at him, Malfoy waves it and mumbles something long and disgustingly Latin, and after a beat, more silver light comes tumbling from the tip of the wand. It’s like candle wax at first, dripping slowly, until it shoots up and explodes into fragments of white which continue to spark throughout the room. Once the last bursts, the walls and floor are left even more iridescent than before. Even Malfoy is glowing slightly._ _

__However, that could be from pure glee, judging by the look on his face. He walks over the nearest wall, posture light and springy, and strokes a hidden shard of light that has positioned itself behind a slightly splintered panel of wood._ _

__“Hello,” he murmurs and Harry feels delusional. In what world does Draco Malfoy own a plush dragon and spend his nights speaking to balls of light? An insane one, Harry will reiterate._ _

__He stays like that, watching Malfoy poke his wand at the damn thing, undeniably mesmerised, before he turns away. As stealthily as possible, he backs away, retreating into the dorm room with one eye on Malfoy’s shrinking figure. He thinks he manages it, considering Malfoy doesn’t turn around and _Crucio_ him. _ _

__Well that was weird._ _

__In all the confusion, his body seems to have finally caught up with his fatigue, and he is drained of energy as soon as he hits the bed. Through the crack in the door, he can see the glimmer of silver eking into the corridor, and he falls asleep wandering what the in the _world_ he just witnessed._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii thanks for reading, please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed (or didn't- tell me why!!) and tell me if theres anything specific you would like to see in this fic;) took bloody ages pls appreciate me cos im failing my exams for this love it! also feel free to share this anywhere OK THANKS IM DONE BEGGING FOR VALIDATION xxxx


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry has a some tense encounters with draco and visits a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit longer than usual (6k) but i have no idea why because i only managed to fit it in half of what i wanted to!!! i guess you'll just have to wait for the next update to find out how i originally planned to do this chapter ;)

It has now been a few days since the incident in the common room. Harry cannot stop thinking about it for the life of him.The more he remembers about it, the more confused he becomes. What was Malfoy practising? Why was he so happy when he managed it? Why was he doing it in the middle of the night? Logically, if it had been something for class or study, he wouldn’t have waited till the shades of the night to do it. Also, logically, he wouldn’t have looked so fucking pleased. Nobody can look that delighted doing homework. Unless you’re Hermione, and even in her case, Harry thinks that it’s not so much for amusement, but rather an intense determination.

Particularly stuck in his mind is the image of Malfoy’s face, illuminated by the glow of the effervescent silver light and elated. Harry is trying his absolute hardest to wash it out- to wipe it from his memory and move forward, forcing himself to be content with the robot Malfoy of the daytime, but his efforts are to no avail. 

It replays like a broken record, and not even one that Harry would have chosen- not one of the ones that he would have snuck onto the vinyl player on the rare occasions that the Dursley’s would take family days out, and Mrs Figg couldn’t take him. He had adored those- danced till the very roots of his bones were aching, in fact, no matter how much the recordings crackled. 

No. It is more akin to one of Uncle Vernon’s choice- sung by old English singers which he would have dug out with an exclamation that it was his father’s favourite. Aunt Petunia would’ve dutifully nodded along to the droning voice, dragging throughout the entire house. Then it would get stuck, and Vernon would spend the whole afternoon blasting the darned thing as it replayed the same tune. He would shout, splutter and shove at Harry until Harry couldn’t remember anything but the stupid sounds of the moment. All night the song would round in his head until it was almost painful. In retrospect, it was probably so because he had had nothing else to busy his mind in his plain and uneventful life. 

Harry vaguely recognises that perhaps Malfoy’s blissful face isn’t as a grotesque sight as Vernon’s pink and infuriated one, but still, both are tormenting. The memory of the incident just plays again and again and again; Harry wishes that he could drown it out like he used to do with the headphones and the ancient Walkman that he had found locked away in a ginormous box of Dudley’s unused stuff. Maybe he should ask if Dudley could send them over. At this point, he would definitely anything to stop the unwanted interest that he feels growing at the image of Malfoy in that fucking silver-lit room. He really doesn’t need a repeat of sixth year, no thank you- Hermione and Ron wouldn’t ever let it go.

Boredom- in that his life, his lessons, his conversations, the days which blur into one, feel so exceptionally pointless to him now. Sadness- in quite literally every way possible, and so bloody different to the picture of Malfoy’s beaming expression. And an overwhelming sense of _this is life, I almost forgot_ , because, thank god, he is actually interested in something. The relief of it makes him want to break down into tears. These three things are perhaps why he is so plagued with these intrusive, unrelenting thoughts. They must be.

The contrast between the Malfoy in his mind’s eye, and the one he sees in real life is jarring. It’s almost nauseating when Harry catches glimpses of his ungrudgingly blank face in class, or the dorm, or the common room- he is fucking _everywhere_ , as you might gather. He can’t catch a break.

One of the changes this year is that all students are required to take a Muggle Studies class, regardless of their OWL and NEWT choices- including Eight Year. Especially, even, as Harry had gathered from the way Mcgonagall had sent a brisk look at the Slytherins in his year upon announcing it. It seems that even Mcgonagall, with all her talk of house unity and forgiveness, can’t shake some prejudice. That is what the war did. It took everything you believed in, everything you thought you stood for, and turned it all on its head, until you’re not sure what the point is, other than plain survival, other than avoiding joining the pile of dead. Other than protecting the people around you.

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However, Professor Caehorn, their new teacher for the subject, had posted last night that the Muggle Studies lesson is concessioned for the first week back at school. It’s Friday now and they have a free period. One being spent awkwardly in the dorm. Hermione and Ron are spending it with Ginny at breakfast. Harry is not, for obvious reasons. He would really rather not listen to his ex girlfriend talk about her new girlfriend, which he is sure Luna is, even if it hasn’t been explicitly stated. Even in his current state of being, he was apparently still able to muster up some complicated mix of misery and anger when he saw them holding hands at dinner the other evening. Ginny’s not his, not anymore, and perhaps never was- but to know that it could’ve been him, had he been able to get it together, hurts so much he sometimes feels like he can’t breathe.

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To Harry’s confusion, Malfoy hasn’t scampered off to God-knows-where this morning. Instead he has joined Harry, Justin and Anthony, the latter having made a great effort to integrate himself since Monday, in an early morning game of Exploding Snap. Well, he hasn’t so much _joined_ , but rather is peering down at them from the quaint Mahogany desk next to his bed, face plastered with an unreadable expression that refuses to give anything away. Harry suspects it probably would say _I want to squash them and their common game like bugs_ if Malfoy were to give up this dumb facade. But then again, thinking of the Malfoy of the common room, he is not so sure anymore.

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__“Snap!” shouts Justin belatedly as his card spontaneously combusts in shared excitement. Harry tries not to flinch at the noise but the abruptness of it has him cringing and tapping his fingers on the floorboards anxiously. It’s just cards, he reminds himself, you can’t be hurt by cards._ _

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__“Fuck! Not again!” groans Anthony and Harry feels pleased that the guy is finally starting to feel at ease with them. “You’re some sort of Exploding Snap genius, Justin, what the hell.”_ _

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__“Muggle Snap was the only thing me and my brother played when I was younger. Even when we were annoyed at each other, we’d let off steam by playing it. It’s the same game pretty much. All about reflexes.” And as if to prove his point, he scores another pair with a bang. Literally._ _

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__“Not fair, man,” Anthony says and another card blows up randomly from his pile. In the corner of his eye, Harry sees Malfoy jump and grasp the edge of the desk in support. He understands. The explosions trigger in him something he is trying desperately not to let come to the surface. However, most unfortunately, the longer he suppresses it, the more the tight the swirling storm of emotions becomes inside of him. He feels ready to explode; destructively on edge, like he might scream at any given moment. But he doesn’t want to let up, doesn’t want to concede to the fact that he cannot even play a card game. Maybe it is this embarrassment and insecurity that leads him to make this dangerous comment- insensitive, even when regarding who it is about. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._ _

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__“Can’t handle a bit of Exploding Snap, Malfoy?” mocks Harry_ _

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__Malfoy turns his stare on him. His eyes are steel grey and hard; there is definitely some hatred there, Harry is sure of it, even when everything else about him indicates indifference. Harry feels perturbed at the way that their eyes lock now. With the way that Malfoy has been steadfastly ignoring Harry’s wandering gaze, Harry had begun to think that perhaps the sight of him made Malfoy feel ill or something, he was that adamant with the cold shoulder treatment. He couldn’t blame him if that were the case._ _

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__The exchange is overflowing with some contorted form of anger. It doesn’t feel like hate, not really. He’ll retract his statement. It is indecipherable, certainly negative but filled with something else too. Perhaps guilt, or a perverse type of understanding- probably both. He’s not sure, and he is a little more than marginally afraid of the answer. He longs for the pure and simple childhood rivalry of their past, and the increasing tension in his body strings him of any confidence he had felt a minute ago._ _

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__Malfoy smiles coldly, “I’d prefer not to partake, thank you, Potter.”_ _

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__“Ah. Yeah, of course,” Harry feigns a moment of comprehension, when in reality he has quickly lost any grip on understanding what the other boy is thinking, “You just know you’d lose. That’s fair enough. I’d be pretty embarrassed too if I was you.”_ _

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__He is distantly aware that Justin and Anthony are frowning at him, probably judging him as cruel with distaste. They don’t get it. Him and Malfoy have always had _this_. _ _

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__It is one of the Earth’s constants, much like how flowers always bloom in Spring, snow always falls and water always flows. He isn’t about to drop it just because Malfoy is having some sociopathic episode. And yes, Merlin’s beard, he knows that he had promised Cindy he would ignore Malfoy. But he can’t help himself. The twat brings out some spontaneous renewal of energy in him, ready to fight, rising from a place where he thought he had none. If only Malfoy still had the same._ _

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__Surprisingly, Malfoy actually responds instead of just assuming oblivion. “Rather the opposite, Potter.”_ _

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__The answer is so clipped, so short, and clearly indicates that Malfoy has no interest in continuing the conversion. So, of course, Harry has to follow it up._ _

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__“What do you mean? You think you’d actually win?” and he pretends to laugh. Secretly, he has no doubt that Malfoy would- Harry is utter shit at the game- but he is really just grasping at straws to try and drag out the moment._ _

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Malfoy just continues staring.

__“It’s not like it's particularly difficult, Potter. Still, you do seem to be struggling.” He ends the sentence with the tiniest curl of his lips, so miniscule and insignificant, but the insulting manner of the comment, however meagre, has Harry delighted. How fucked up is that?_ _

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__“Oh, so you are watching? Thought you were too above the game to be interested?” probes Harry._ _

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__“It’s proving hard not to, with the amount of noise you are making. It may come as a shock, but some people have work to do.”_ _

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__“Yeah, I noticed you didn’t like those noises. Scared, Malfoy?” and their duel from second year echoes in his head. Look where he is now, still attempting to play the same recycled games._ _

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__Maybe Harry has gone too far, because Malfoy seems to shut down. Where his expression had begun to morph into one of mocking, nose scrunched and mouth twisted, it is now replaced by cool detachment. Harry hadn’t even noticed the change in the midst of the moment._ _

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__“Excuse me.” Malfoy says and strides out of the room rapidly, book still in hand and not sparing a single glance at Harry or the others. Whom Harry now remembers are still there, and with much embarrassment he turns to look at them._ _

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__Justin seems a bit disappointed by Harry’s behaviour, and he feels pathetic. Especially since Harry actually could empathise with Malfoy, whether it’s for the same reasons or not. Although, since Malfoy was very much present in the war, Harry is doubtful that it isn’t. The whole debacle was unnecessary, in spite of how right it felt to be bickering again. Anthony is actively dodging Harry’s eye, but the downward turn of his lips signifies that he also wasn’t a fan of the interaction. He is awkwardly shuffling the cards in his hands, and the noise is the only one in the wide room._ _

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__“Really, Harry?” sighs Justin._ _

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__“What?” he answers defensively, but at the same time resigned to whatever scathing critique is coming. He is accustomed to it now, thanks to years of friendship with Hermione._ _

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__“We’re not in fifth year anymore. It’s time to stop hanging on to whatever antagonistic relationship you two had in the past. I’m not a fan of him any more than you are, but he was clearly minding his own business there. C’mon, mate. Be fair,” and he does offer a smile as consolation, “Move on, now.”_ _

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__It is the last comment that affects Harry the most. He knows Justin means well- is one of the friendliest people Harry has made the acquaintance of in a long time, in fact- but the implied simplicity of _moving on_ makes his skin crawl. As if it is something that could be accomplished with the snap of your fingers. As if it is something that hasn’t inspired hours upon hours of self-hatred, as if it hasn’t rendered him awake and nauseous at the early hours of the day, beating at his head and wondering why he can’t just get over the memories. It is a reminder of just how broken he is._ _

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__“Not really as easy as that,” he murmurs curtly, because he doesn’t have the energy to explain himself._ _

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__“I know,” Justin tries to smile sympathetically, his auburn curls falling into his face, and Harry can’t help but think to himself that he probably doesn’t, not really, “But you have to try, mate. It’s not doing you any good to be clinging to old rivalries anymore. We all hate the Slytherins secretly, it can’t be helped, but you can’t be outward about it. Some of them are alright and even though Malfoy was horrible in the war, let's not cause any unnecessary grief, yeah?”_ _

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__“Yeah. OK. You’re right.” Harry replies despondently and Justin taps Anthony on the shoulder, and they both stand up to leave._ _

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__As they go, Harry thinks that Justin misunderstands the situation. He couldn’t give less of a shit about the other Slytherins. As far as he is concerned, most of them are just normal, good-hearted kids caught in a bad reputation. And it’s not even really that he hates Malfoy. Yeah, Justin has gotten it completely wrong, but Harry isn’t really sure how he would even correct him._ _

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__He sits there for a while on the floor and sorts, slowly and unthinkingly, through the playing cards strewn about. He is depressed by his own behaviour and further ashamed at the fact that he had enjoyed it so much._ _

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__When he knows it's time for his first lesson, indicated by the bustle of fourth years coming out of their previous lesson in the greenhouse, he gets up unwillingly. Instead of leaving immediately, however, he just stands there for a moment, wondering whether it is possible to delay Defence Against the Dark Arts without the use of a time turner._ _

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__Glancing around the room, he scours for something to grant this distraction. Maybe chance has favoured him and some helpless animal has crawled in and needs his aid? He looks underneath the beds and the furniture but alas, no animal. Perhaps Justin, for some strange reason, wants Harry to make his bed? But one look at Justin’s bed and he recognises that he cannot find one way to perfect the already cleaned-and-arranged sheets._ _

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__On a whim, Harry wonders whether Malfoy has left his dragon out again. Despite his conversation with Justin, he wouldn’t be able to resist teasing him for that. He searches around the bed and underneath the desk, but the beast is nowhere in sight. Harry is seriously confused as to where it could be, and would be genuinely concerned that he had made it up and that it’s an object of his own fantasy, were it not for Malfoy’s dry and suspicious response the other day._ _

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__As he is rising up from his surveillance underneath the desk chair, he scans Malfoy’s papers, left in an orderly fashion across the surface of his desk. His handwriting is neat and full of sweeping loops, which Harry almost can’t read. He suddenly remembers, can’t believe he even managed to forget- perhaps he can call that some progress- the incident in the common room. Maybe, just maybe, Malfoy is plotting some dastardly deed and has just so happened to leave the plans out in plain sight. Unlikely but not impossible._ _

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__Unfortunately, upon reading the script with some difficulty, he is disappointed to realise it is just Potions homework. Boring and meticulously done, of course, and Harry almost considers taking it just to spite the dickhead, until he catches his own name on the last couple of lines, next to a profound ink blot. The scrawl is considerably messier here, written quickly and it’s crossed out- but still somewhat legible._ _

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_Potter is so fucking annoying, can he please stop pretending he is okay with this stupid game and tell Finch-Fletchley and whatever the other one is called that he needs to stop playing. Idiot Gryffindor thinking we can’t see him-_

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__After that Harry can’t read the next few words, but he has gathered enough information for his liking anyway. He is stunned, and confused. This is the last thing he would have thought Malfoy was thinking about. Why had he written it anyway? Surely the thought was not so pressing that he had to ruin his Potions homework to- what- come to Harry’s rescue? Insult him? Observe him? He thinks that it’s probably an unnerving combination of all of the above._ _

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__He looks away, troubled by yet another insight into Malfoy’s private life. At the moment, he is incredibly torn between wanting to know more and obliviating himself from the horror of it. Scanning the desk again, curiosity winning, he is unsatisfied by the mundane nature of the rest of the items. Malfoy seems to keep things that are all of one colour and alike in appearance- like a set. His school books are bound in dark leather and his quills are the same, with the addition of ostentatious peacock feathers. There is little else on the desk, it is rather barren, apart from a couple of sweet wrappers stuffed into the corner which make Harry grin a little, the thought of Malfoy stuffing his face familiar to him. He has always had a sweet tooth, Harry had picked as much up throughout their school years, watching bitterly as Malfoy had received parcel upon parcel of expensive cakes, desserts and chocolates from his mother._ _

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__There is something, however. A case, bound in the same material as everything else- rectangular and familiar to Harry. He almost leaves it, thinking that he is silly for caring, but the inquisition gnaws at him as he backs away and he hurries to open it._ _

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__Inside, a pair of glasses lie against a green silk cloth. They are dark brown, with a frame only around half the lenses. The idea that Malfoy owns a pair of glasses is baffling. Surely they cannot be his? Harry has never once seen him wearing them. If he had, Harry would have unequivocally been spared the glasses-related insults which he has long endured from Malfoy. Despite this, the fact that their binding and aesthetic matches everything else in Malfoy’s collection, as well as simply being on his desk, indicates otherwise._ _

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__He wants to laugh. What a hypocrite. The next time he makes fun of Harry for his own pair, he will certainly receive a taste of his own medicine._ _

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__Closing the case and trying to place it back where it had been exactly, he finds that he doesn’t really want to put off class any longer. He has lost taste for trying to cling to the comfort of this room, like some sort of festering mould._ _

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__Off he goes._ _

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__\----_ _

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__Their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher is an amiable guy, quite young and good looking, if you’re into golden haired, muscular superhero looking types. Most of the girls in Harry’s class noticeably like to stay behind after the lesson is over, and he can’t blame them. The man, Professor Henrison, is blatantly handsome, even from a straight man’s perspective. Which Harry is, obviously._ _

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__After dropping his chalk, he bends down and all eyes in the class zoom in on his admittedly impressive backside. Henrison stands up again and as he does so, his white shirt stretches over his muscles pleasantly and Harry can’t help but stare. They pull at the fabric in all the right areas, his biceps especially bulging in the tight fit. Harry realises his mistake when Ron nudges him in the side, with a querying look on his face as if he thinks Harry is bonkers._ _

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__“What are you doing?” he whispers madly._ _

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__“Nothing.” Harry answers, willing his cheeks not to be the bright red he thinks they are._ _

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__“I think Professor Henrison needs looser clothes. Looks ridiculous.” Ron mutters, some hints of his jealous streak shining through. Harry just nods in reply, fixating on his notes in front of him as a distraction._ _

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__They soon move into doing a practical exercise, instructed to work on their wandless magic and in particular, their wandless defence. So far throughout the week, Harry has tried his best to not make it too conspicuous that he finds this stupidly easy. Something about accessing that raw magic in him, the part that housed a part of Voldemort and perhaps another place inside him too, has made it effortless to tap into performing spells wandlessly. In fact, he finds it takes less energy to do, letting his will flow from his brain to his fingers, than if he were to channel it through his wand. That feels almost too rigid, too restricting. Magic is much greater than a piece of wood, he has come to realise. It is unpredictable. Sometimes he cannot muster up much more than a weakly flickering Lumos, and sometimes he could raze a whole house if he so desired. The latter is rare now; has almost vanished altogether._ _

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_Protego_ Harry thinks as Ron aims a spell at him, and he lets the familiar warmth in his belly spread to the tip of his fingers with satisfaction.

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__The spell is just about leaving his body when, suddenly, he hears a loud noise coming from the hallway. The whole class turns in unison, the way that students do when there is a chance of getting out of schoolwork, but Henrison yaps at them to stay focused._ _

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__The instruction holds for a minute or two but when aggressive shouting rounds up in addition to the thuds from before, all the students flock to the door._ _

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__Harry pushes his way through to see what is happening, and the sight that beholds makes his stomach drop. Malfoy’s skinny frame is on the floor, bag spilled open and a look of distress flooding his angular features. He is scrambling to pick his things up as two broad shouldered boys point their wands at him menacingly._ _

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__“Oi, Malfoy, what do you think you’re doing?” One of them grunts and aims a deep and vicious kick into Malfoy’s stomach, leaving him huffing in pain and grasping at the stone floor around him in a weak attempt to get up._ _

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__Harry is frozen. But when the taller of the bullies goes to kick him again, it only takes a split second for him to decide to intervene. He takes a step forward, and Malfoy’s ears seem to prick up. Lying there on the ground, looking dejected and covered in bruises, Malfoy catches his eye. He stares at him, a warning in his glare. Harry feels at a loss, he doesn’t know what is happening, only that he cannot stand this any longer. Then, insanely, Malfoy mouths ‘no’ at Harry, clearly signifying that he doesn’t want any help._ _

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__Whether that is in general, or just from Harry specifically, he isn’t sure- but he doesn’t care. At all. It is time to take a leaf out of Malfoy’s book and do some good quality ignoring._ _

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__“Stop!” he shouts at the two boys and they spin around, faces stricken with panic. They seem to take in the class of students all watching them, as well as Professor Henrison pacily forcing his way to the front, and make a run for it. Henrison pushes out of the crowd with a pop and takes off after them. Whoops sound up from the students. Some people are trying to follow, probably to get a first hand account of the gossip, some are heading back into the classroom and some are making moves to try and get out of class whilst they still can. None are trying to help Malfoy. Harry is being hustled and jolted, yanked this way and that, by the roaring sea of arms and legs around him but, for once, he doesn’t even notice._ _

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__Malfoy is shakily getting to his feet, his things sprawled messily across the grim stone of the floor. He stands in the middle of his puddle of things, his arms wrapped around himself as if its protection, and looking more and more like the unsure and distraught boy of the war than Harry cares for._ _

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__“Do you want any help?” Harry asks quietly, taking two steps forward. He isn’t sure why he is feeling the need to be gentle, but he gets the impression that Malfoy is fragile right now. Fuck, maybe he contributed to that. It’s hard- to realise that other people are suffering too, to come to terms that the world doesn’t end with you. It really is. But he feels it now more than ever as Malfoy turns on him fiercely._ _

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__“Stop fucking talking to me! Stop it!” Malfoy says with anger in his voice. His face is flushed, his white hair askew, and there is a beastly bruise blossoming purple on his cheek. If you weren’t looking at the wildness in his eyes, you might presume that he is weak, pathetic even. One glance at the flashing rage in his stare, however, and Harry knows that isn’t true._ _

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__“Malfoy, I was only trying to help,” he offers sheepishly. The voices behind him whisper frantically but he tries his best to tune them out. They are just water off his wings._ _

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__“Well don’t.” says Malfoy with finality and he whirls off down the corridor, not bothering to pick up his stuff. This is a recurring theme, Harry realises. How Malfoy will storm off in a fit, and leave Harry behind with more questions than answers, as well as the craving to follow after him, just to see what would happen._ _

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__Professor Henrison strides back towards them from round the corner. His shirt is sticking to him more than before, doubtlessly from the sweat he must have built up chasing the duo, who he now tells them got away with no identification. The class herds him with questions, girls huddle to his side, and Malfoy and Harry’s little episode is long forgotten by the pupils._ _

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__But not by Harry. No, he resigns himself resentfully to another day of Malfoy-related thoughts._ _

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__\-------_ _

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__After lessons are over for the day, Harry feels the need to do something. He is restless, and it's strange. He is so used to that numb, exhausted sensation, that he has been forgetting what it feels like to have energy, he recognises now with some semblance of horror. No good it is doing him now, though, for he cannot find anything to do. He doesn’t really want to talk to anyone. His mind is alight with one thing only and he can’t imagine having to pretend that it isn't, having to make conversation over some small and insignificant matter._ _

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__Friends are ruled out then, even Ron and Hermione. And then, by extension, so is Quidditch. It isn’t really a one-man game. He needs something, or someone, who doesn’t demand his attention. Luna firstly pops into his head, but he dismisses her on the account of her new relationship with Ginny. Coming to a standpoint in a winding staircase near the Great Hall, he stares out of the stain glass window dejectedly, already giving up at finding something. The landscape is picturesque, and stunning in a way that Harry knows he'll admire most when he isn't here, when he is at home in the gloom of Grimmauld Place. For several minutes the view remains unchanged apart from the gradual creeping of the clouds, but when he sees the silhouette of a familiar Hippogriff fly across the sky, he suddenly knows where to go._ _

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__The walk down to Hagrid’s hut is beautiful. Hogwarts is beautiful, he thinks. Despite the wear, despite the horror, you wouldn’t ever know there had been a war here, had you not seen it yourself. The castle seems to have taken it upon itself to take the reconstruction as a chance to renovate completely, and it now stands stronger than ever. All around him, flowers bloom and flourishing plants wave in the breeze of the afternoon; the grounds are exuberant with life. The battlefield, the dead, are all around him, but Hogwarts refuses to die with them. If only he could forget it all. He wishes deeply that he could appreciate the new soul of the castle without the memories and flashbacks assailing the image._ _

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__Harry reaches Hagrid’s front door and knocks loudly, not feeling much taller than he had when he was here as a first year. The door swings open and Hagrid’s hairy face beams down at him in glee._ _

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__“‘Ello, ‘Arry! Come in, why don’t ya?” and Harry nods eagerly, following him through. The hut is still as cosy as ever, even with the grand slabs of meat for Fang hanging from the ceiling. He settles on the cushy armchair and breathes in the earthy smell so distinct to him._ _

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__“How are you, Hagrid?” he asks as Hagrid puts a kettle on, and finds that he genuinely wants to know the answer._ _

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__“‘M alright! Olympe and I enjoyed a sunny holiday in Barcelona together this summer. Nice change from England, if ya ask me.” And Harry snorts at the image of Hagrid and Olympe in swimming gear on a Muggle beach. Merlin, he prays that Hagrid didn’t wear speedos._ _

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__“That sounds like fun. I’m glad you had a good summer. Are you two serious now then?”_ _

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__“‘M not really sure, to tell ya the truth, ‘Arry,” and he brings over the tea- dark, just as Harry likes it- with a warm smile, “But I’d like to think so. And ‘ow is yourself?”_ _

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__He wants to be honest, to spill and confide in Hagrid. It would be truly easy- the comfort of both the man and the place would ensure that. He could feel like a child again, just for one brief evening, and let it all out to this giant of a man, who he loves, and trusts._ _

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__One scan of the room, and he realises he doesn’t want to shatter the tender peace that the place invites. His words would surely destroy the ambience that Hagrid has here, and Harry can’t bring himself to do that to the man, can’t be that heavy burden that he was during the War. He doesn't wish that on anyone ever again._ _

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__“I’m great, thanks for asking.” He grins and almost feels like crying at what a lie it is._ _

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__This isn’t what was supposed to happen when he came here. He wasn’t planning on getting depressed and maudlin, and he still isn’t now._ _

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__“Hagrid?” he asks, taking a large gulp of his tea, which makes him feel a fraction better._ _

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__“Yea, ‘Arry?”_ _

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__“Do you think I could help you do some gardening? Just might be quite nice, you think?” And Harry crosses his fingers that Hagrid will agree to let him._ _

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__“Sounds great.” Hagrid smiles, all hair and beard and brown beetle eyes, and Harry knows that coming here was a good idea after all._ _

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__They sit together, finishing their tea, and Hagrid doesn’t bombard him with questions other than whether he would like to feed Fang a slab of steak. Taking one look at the vicious points of Fang’s teeth, and weighing up the likelihood that they’ll trigger him somehow, he decides that it is probably safe. He tears up the meat, cringing at it’s slimy, cold texture. Hagrid laughs at him and Fang nuzzles his leg gratefully as he is fed. It is a lovely moment, there is a bird tweeting her song somewhere outside and Harry yearns to stay here forever._ _

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__Once the tea is drunk, and the mugs washed, they head outside. Harry had had to stand on a stool to reach Hagrid’s humongous sink, and for a fraction of a second, he felt like his nine year old self, standing on the kitchen chair to reach the Dursley’s frying pans. Needless to say, cleaning the mugs side by side with Hagrid, whilst an evening breeze passed through the hut, had felt nothing like the lonesome and laborious dish-washing of his childhood_ _

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__“‘Ere ya go.” Hagrid hands him a shovel and he takes it, the weight of it surprising him, “We’re gonna dig here, alright?” He shows Harry where to plant the Knotgrass seeds, and they dig together in amicable silence. It is hard work, and after a while, Harry begins to break a sweat. This kind of activity is something he never does anymore, and he finds that once he is into it, he can’t imagine stopping. The ache of his muscles is almost addictive, as he thinks delightedly of the type of pain they usually receive- a sort of creeping one, fatiguing and paralysing. Nothing like this gratifying sensation, which comes only from exercise._ _

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__“I ‘eard you’re not roomed with Ron anymore, how's that then?” asks Hagrid as he passes him a fresh basket of saplings._ _

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__“How did you hear about that?” says Harry, genuinely curious._ _

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__“‘M still a teacher ‘ere, ‘arry, in case you forgot. The staff room talks.” And Harry balks at the vision of Mcgonagall spreading gossip about him. It could be an atrocity, with the amount of dirt that woman has on him._ _

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__“Oh, right, yeah. Of course. It’s alright. Justin and Anthony are better roommates than I had expected. But I won’t lie and say that I don’t miss the Gryffindor dorm sometimes,” and he conveniently leaves out the part where he is mostly glad that he doesn’t have to deal with its rowdiness anymore. He isn’t sure he would be able to cope with Ron’s inquisition, as awful as that sounds, let alone Dean and Seamus and whatever antics they get up to now. Neville would be lovely, of course, what with his respectful and considerable manner._ _

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__“‘N the Malfoy boy?” asks Hagrid and he puts his hands up defensively at Harry’s irritated expression, “Wha! It’s common knowledge yous are roomed together!”_ _

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__Harry concedes and straightens out his back, hearing a satisfying pop as his bones click back into place. Him and Hagrid decide to call it a day when Hagrid’s do the same in a vaguely terrifying, loud ripple of noise, and as they place their dirty shovels back in the tool cupboard, Harry considers his answer to Hagrid’s question. He knows he is awaiting an answer after all; is just giving Harry the room to give it, which he is wholly thankful for._ _

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__“He’s OK, I guess. He’s confusing, is what he is.”_ _

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__“In what way?”_ _

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__“I dunno how to explain it. Me and him, we’ve always been at each other's throats. I think we both enjoyed it in a weird way. Now we’re not, except I can’t help but fall back into the habit,” offers Harry, as a starting point, “I don’t get him. He seems really emotionless most of the time, but then there’s these moments where he all of a sudden isn’t, I dunno. He doesn’t seem to want to talk to me. I’m not sure what to do when I’m around him.”_ _

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__It is not the world's most articulate answer, nor the most informative, but it is something, and that is enough for Harry. He realises how revealing it is of his messy state of mind, however- all over the place and with tendencies that he really fucking shouldn’t have. Harry blushes and puts on his jumper to hide it._ _

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__“‘Arry,” Hagrids starts, and he feels strangely nervous at what is coming, “I think you need to let go of any preconceptions that ya ‘ave about your relationship, and jus’ let it be what it is.”_ _

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__Letting the words roll in his brain, Harry finds it actually makes some sense._ _

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__“Thanks, Hagrid. That was pretty wise.” Harry grins._ _

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__“‘M coming for Professor Trelawney’s job, didn’t ya ‘ear?” Hagrid smiles widely back at him in response, and Harry laughs. The advice is logical, to treat Malfoy as if he is someone new, a stranger even. It wouldn’t work though, he knows. It would be easier said than done, and would doubtlessly end up failing as a plan since Harry wants to punch Malfoy in his stupid face at almost all points of the day. He does like the notion but is almost certain that he couldn’t stick to the idea wholeheartedly, for that would require a level of forgiveness and understanding that he just doesn't have within him yet. The twat just gets to him, and Harry cannot forget their history when he is forced to relive it every day. However, it could be a beginning, a direction to guide his chaotic mind.__

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__As Harry goes to leave, Hagrid draws him into a bear hug that crushes Harry’s windpipes, but makes up for it in the warmth it spreads throughout his body. He throws his arms around the man in a fit of gratitude and pure affection. They stay like that for long enough that Harry starts to forget where he is, before Hagrid ruffles his hair and pushes him out the door playfully._ _

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__The sun is disappearing from the horizon when they bid their farewells- Fang joins in too, and Harry departs from the hut with a lightness in his heart and an idea in his mind._ _

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi hiiiii hope you enjoyed this one, i have lots of ideas and a plot that im very excited about to write so please stick with me as it all gets established :))))) this is a SLOWBURN so if that isnt your thing im sorry to disappoint but there wont be any proper good lovey-dovey fluff times between our two idiots for a little while.... but when it comes... itll be good i promise xoxo PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS AND SHARE ANYWHERE YOU LIKE :-DDD


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plot is building ;) still not giving much away but we have some more lovely draco-stalking time. but mainly i wanted this chapter to be about harry's relationships with people in his life- feel like its necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a whopper!!!! almost 10k ... ur welcome xoxo it just never felt like the right time to cut it off but i also didnt wanna leave anything out! its so late for me rn so i will probably come back in the morning to proof read and be like shit what the fuck so please allow any grammar/ atrocious vocab mistakes

A part of Harry’s grand plan includes spending more time with Ron and Hermione. First and foremost because they are his best friends, and the love that he has for them is embedded deep within him, has become as fundamental to his living as the lungs with which he breathes. Secondly, and perhaps selfishly of him, because they are a distraction. 

The less time he spends alone, the less likely he is to be overrun with these dreadful thoughts. He doesn’t want to think about Malfoy and whatever might have happened to him to make him so feeble- so formal- and so secretive. Harry had envisaged the boy coming out the war relatively unchanged, still with that aggravating yet imposing presence that screams _look at me_ even if it were more subdued than before. It is only now that Malfoy barely speaks at all that Harry realises how loud he had once been, how much of a bloody drama queen. The contrast is harrowing. Thinking back to Hagrid’s advice, Harry realises that maybe he doesn’t even need to pretend that Malfoy is a stranger. He is one already. And he didn’t realise until now how difficult that would be to admit- he has always considered himself as someone who knows Malfoy well, even if it were antagonistically. 

Although, considering the brief glimpses of anger that Harry has been a witness to, maybe he hasn’t completely transformed. The livid look on his face earlier today was more akin to the boy he once knew. The curiosity kills him, but he must resist. It’s pointless to him now, when there are so many other things that need to be addressed. He cannot let Malfoy be at the front of his mind, as he had in sixth year- he _cannot_.

The confusion of it all- these terrifyingly unnerving emotions- could be the thing to finally crush him, if he lets it.

He also doesn’t want to think about the time bomb ticking away inside his body- loaded, wedged tightly into his skin. Every moment it counts down the seconds till his next anxiety wave in excruciating punches to the gut, which Harry feels each time with heavy dread. 

Whilst Ron and Hermione can be overly inquiring, and too bloody observant for their own goods, he knows it ultimately is just because they love him as much as he does them. And he will be damned if he lets his damaged state of mind come between that. His utter lack of energy, the fact that he can only apparently find interest in the life and actions of _Malfoy_ , of all people- Harry will not allow these obstacles to surpass the friendship between the three of them, as he is a little scared he might have been beginning to do. 

One of his biggest fears is losing Ron and Hermione. If they were to be taken away from him, a colossal part of him would go too. It is essential that he doesn’t fuck up this one _very right_ thing in his life.

He never thought he would say it, but he misses Grimmauld Place for this reason. In all it’s grimness, Ron and Hermione were the sole flowers in the winter. Now it is spring; they still shine just as brightly in the field, but are admittedly easier to lose track of. 

The takeaways- Merlin, he admits freely that he would trade a Hogwarts meal for just one portion of Chow Mein Singapore Noodles in an instant, greasy as they may have been. There was something special about their tradition of watching Ron fumble with the TV remote whilst they spooned bucketfuls of fried vegetables into their ravenous mouths.

He and Ron are currently playing a game of Wizard’s Chess in the common room as Hermione reads through her Potions notes. He feels in oddly high spirits after his visit with Hagrid, and he takes in the atmosphere- jovial and animated tonight- with pleasure, rather than with anxiety. That is a start, he supposes, and smiles to himself. 

“You really are shit at this game, aren’t you?” Ron pokes teasingly, although it is, in all fairness, a justified point. Harry is seemingly lousy at all games, as he has come to realise over the past few days- thank you to Malfoy for calling attention to his incompetence at Exploding Snap.

 _Fuck_ , no thinking about the git, not tonight. 

“Watch me beat you,” challenges Harry.

“As if,” snorts Ron, “We’ve been playing this for years, mate, and you’re still yet to win in a game. I think that’s a sign of shitness. In fact, ‘m pretty sure the only person you’ve beat is Neville- and he’s not the biggest competition out there.”

Harry pretends to be affronted, “I’m just making it easy for you to satisfy that humongous ego.”

“C’mon, just admit defeat already.”

“Never. If I can defeat Voldemort, I can bloody well beat you in a game of Wizard’s Chess at least once.” And at that, Ron chortles, a deep and earthy sound that, in some strange feat of nature, is actually relaxing to Harry. Most people enjoy the patter of rain, or the crackling of the fire. Not Harry- no. He is unfortunately attuned to Ron and his ungraceful noises. 

“Voldy has nothing on me, mate. Not when it comes to Chess,” says Ron. One of the things Harry appreciates most about his company is his understanding of Harry’s jokes, and how he takes what is uncomfortable to most in his stride. 

Perhaps it’s Harry’s fault, since he has to be so fucking complicated- he wouldn’t be surprised if people are just scared shitless of pulling his trigger. He cannot find it in him to joke about the war itself. The thought of the battle, the fleeing, and the lives upon lives upon lives lost to what should’ve been his own fucking fight- they frighten him, make him lose grip of his own mind. But that last act- Harry killing Voldemort? It almost seems like a joke in itself. If he doesn’t make fun of it, of how terrifying the finality of that moment was, he might combust with the weight of it. 

See- complicated.

Last night, Harry experienced real, authentic humiliation when Anthony didn’t laugh at his awkward jibe about Voldemort being only a bit scarier than Justin in the morning. Even Justin had just chuckled uneasily rather than grant him the laugh he had been expecting. Thank Merlin for Ron and his warped sense of humour, something they can attribute to their delirious days on the run.

Justin doesn’t seem to understand how to act in relation to the war, and for that, Harry can’t blame him.

“‘Gotcha!” says Ron with glee, taking his King after only about five minutes of playing. He could be cheating, could have even made the rules up, for all Harry knows. But for now he is content to admit failure. He can recognise a lost cause when he sees one- it has indeed become a talent of his.

“One day, Ron. One day,” he warns.

“If you say so, mate,” Ron shrugs and slumps down on the nearest sofa, “Maybe when the professors stop giving us so much work, we might actually have time to practise.”

Harry joins him, and together they form a sizeable dip in the cushion where their combined weight is squashing it. Eyeing up the seating arrangement with her watchful gaze, Hermione seems to deem it suitable and jumps in next to Harry. The three of them are very cosily jam-packed, but Harry hasn’t felt this comforted in a while. First, Hagrid’s all-encompassing, choking hugs, and now, Ron and Hermione on either side. It is his lucky evening, apparently.

On a normal day, he would most likely hate the contact; it would suffocate him, make him panic. But today is proving to be far from normal, and Hermione’s earl grey scent is strong enough to ground him in the moment. Instead, he feels safer than ever. It is different, but welcome. Hagrid’s hugs, for that matter, have such a nostalgic distinctiveness in his height and warm grasp, that even Harry couldn’t possibly find it in him to associate it with anything frightening. 

“Ron, you didn’t really think that the workload would be light this year, did you? It’s the last year of NEWTs!” Hermione says, exasperated.

“Well, no, but you would think that since we just finished, y’know, fighting an evil wizard, they might’ve cut us a bit of bloody slack. I thought Mcgonagall was going to bite my head off when I didn’t have my Transfiguration textbook. Not like it really matters now, if we’re being honest.” 

“And she would be right to do so,” says Hermione.

“Hey!” says Ron, offended and lightly reaching across Harry to smack her brown arm.

“No domestics whilst I’m here, please. Or at least free me from being in the middle first,” Harry intervenes and the three of them share a laugh. It feels like those frost-bitten nights again, where they had had to huddle for warmth, and Ron and Hermione were still sorting their shit out as a couple. Mainly, it is a pleasant memory, one which reminds him of just how much they’ve been through together- so he lets the flashback wash over him gently before it rolls away to the back of his mind.

“Sorry, Harry. Ronald is just being a brute, as usual,” Hermione says but smiles amusedly as a peace offering. The Hippogriff-shaped light twinkles above her, gliding over their heads gracefully. He hadn’t realised at first, but they sometimes move in accordance to the mood of the room. Tonight the lights all seem to be glowing a tender gold, and they slowly sail above them with ease. Over Susan Bones’ ginger head, the Unicorn neighs and gallops in circles as she throws her head back in laughter. 

“Hey, did you hear about what happened with those two blokes who beat up Malfoy?” Ron suddenly asks, and Harry groans internally. So much for not thinking of Malfoy tonight. 

He waits for Hermione to reply, in hope that he can keep any of this temporary interest at bay. Maybe it's just a case of being out of sight, out of mind. Or out of speech, out of mind. Whatever.

When she says nothing, staring at Harry from his left hand side with those insightful brown eyes, he realises both Ron and Hermione are expecting him to answer. He doesn’t know quite what to do with this information.

“What happened?” He sighs and tries to shrug off their perceptiveness, willing the unease it stirs in him to go away. That’s what comes with having people who are so close to you, he supposes. Sometimes he truly considers that they know him better than he does himself. Especially now has this become pertinent, with his relief at departing from Grimmauld intermixed with his terror in the face of Hogwarts, with his desire to be with his friends yet somehow completely apart from them, and with his inner conflict about everything Malfoy-related. Does he want to talk to him? Does he want to fight him? Does he want to forget him? Harry has no idea about any of it, but he’s sure Hermione and Ron do.

If only he weren’t a coward, then he would endeavour to talk to them about it all. But that’s a different life, and a different boy. He’s just Harry, who got lucky, and wishes that he hadn’t. 

“Basically, they still haven’t been identified,” says Ron. “For some bloody reason, nobody seems to be able to give a proper description of their faces. Or at least not one that has led them to them. Nobody is coming forward with names, either.” 

Harry is shocked. With the amount of people that were there, he is astounded that not a single person knows who they were. With a hint of sadness, he thinks that maybe they just don’t care, or even worse, believe that Malfoy deserves it. He isn’t sure how he feels about the boy anymore, his sentiments seemingly having evolved from their boyish hatred of the past, but nowhere near reaching civility. What he does know is that he no longer wants to see Malfoy beaten down. However, to be fair, he hasn’t a clue who the boys were either, but he would be happy to provide a Pensieve memory if asked. 

He poses this as a solution now. “Why haven’t they done any Pensieve memory checks, or Legilimancy even?” 

Chiming in with her informative voice in full place, Hermione answers partly for him. “It’s illegal to perform Legilimency now without consent, unless it’s in a life threatening situation, or Ministry duty. They decided that it was an invasion of privacy, and immoral. It’s about time, in my opinion.”

Her eyes flash with anguish and he knows that she is remembering the pain of Bellatrix trying to split her mind open with Legilimency in a rabid, hungering fit of madness, peeling it apart like a wolf rips at the flesh of its fallen victim. At Malfoy Manor. Harry feels a little sick when he recalls how Malfoy had stood there- dark mark stark against his pale skin- with cold sweat and frightened eyes. And he had done nothing. Coward. _Like you_ , his subconscious hisses.

Harry himself also thinks of Snape and his Legilimency lessons in fifth year. He relives how vigorously he had been worked, how cruelly he had been treated for a boy only _fifteen years old_ , and still manages to feel a flickering flame of anger. Dumbledore. Snape. They were supposed to protect him- he was supposed to be able to rely on them- but what good had they really done him in the end.

“The idea that just about anyone could read my mind is bloody terrifying. Wouldn’t want someone like Zabini digging around in there- not that he wouldn’t now, even if it’s illegal,” Ron says, “Shady git.” Harry snorts, thinking of Zabini’s mysterious poise and slippery manner, and deciding that- yes- it’s definitely an appropriate description.

“So if it’s consensual, why can’t they do it?” asks Harry.

“It’s considered an abuse of power when done from teacher to student. I’m actually not sure about between students, though,” Hermione admits, looking extremely disappointed to not know something. She scratches her nose like she does when she is in deep thought. The ink on her finger smudges onto her nose and the silliness of it takes away from her seriousness. Ron snorts but she doesn’t take any notice, doing it again and spreading the black splodge onto her cupid’s bow.

“OK,” Harry takes this on board, grinning a little, “But what about the Pensieve?”

“I heard that someone got a kinda clear one but- get this, it’s bloody weird- they have no idea who the students are. Teachers are shitting themselves because either the Pensieve memory is just not clear enough, or there are some random blokes running around the school beating up Malfoys. Might’ve broken in.” And Ron raises his eyebrows for dramatic effect, blue eyes wide and expectant.

Now, _this_ is news. It is the exact kind of happenings he had foreseen in coming back to Hogwarts. The suspense, the panic, the constant threat. It may always be his home, in some twisted nostalgic shape or form, but it has also brought him so much misfortune that he isn’t sure he could recount it all in one sitting. Frankly, he is sick to death of it; he wants no further part in this bullshit. If only Malfoy wasn’t bang smack in the centre of it all.

“You’re joking.”

“Not in the slightest, mate.”

“Of course you’re not,” Harry sighs.

“It’s Hogwarts, what did you expect?” says Ron and Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that. Perhaps some eventual rest? A chance to heal from everything else that has happened here before another disaster overtakes all of their lives? He is a simple man, with simple needs. One of them being _can everything just fuck right off_.

Something occurs to him. “What has Malfoy said in all this? Surely he knows them or at least has a clearer memory?”

Ron frowns pensively before saying, “I dunno actually. Maybe I should ask Seamus, he’s the one I heard it all from.”

“No, don’t,” Hermione interjects from beside him. The ginormous ink blot has snuck onto her cheeks now, marring her dark skin, and Harry distantly thinks about how they should probably tell her. He won’t. Secretly he adores her most like this, a little frazzled, a little messy, and oh so full of ideas. 

She continues, “I know what happened, not that I was purposefully listening, of course, but they were being dreadfully loud. I heard Padma talking to Hannah in the library and she said that she overheard Malfoy refusing to speak. Apparently he is feigning ignorance about the whole affair.”

“As if he could, with that massive bloody bruise,” chuckles Ron, “No clue why he doesn’t fix it up. For a Pure-blood, he's not great at using his wand, is he?” And Harry ponders about whether he should give back Malfoy's wand- his proper one- which is dusting away in a trunk at Grimmauld Place. He thinks he might have seen Kreacher crying, fondling it- probably at the sight of something new from the Black family line. Everything in that house has lived at least two hundred years, he is certain . 

Then again, his new wand appeared to be functioning well on that night in the common room, when Malfoy seemed to be setting practically the whole castle alight with silver light beams. He thinks he’ll keep it, for a bit longer, if Malfoy doesn’t need it.

“Maybe he likes it, gives him more attention,” offers Harry halfheartedly, not really believing his own words as he reflects on Malfoy’s despondent, bizarre attitude.

“Maybe,” agrees Ron but, likewise, without much enthusiasm. There is a sudden influx of noise as a group of Ravenclaw girls arrive in a flurry. As he watches them scurry to their dorms in fits of giggles, the new sigil and tie for eighth years is glaringly obvious. He hardly notices it on himself but he finds it a little jarring on others.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” Ron reaches over Harry to poke at her with a wide cheesing grin plastered across his freckled visage, “You’ve got something on your face.”

“What!” Hermione rubs at her face, which only serves to spread the ink further onto her forehead and her hands. “Agh!”

“Lemme get that,” says Ron and Hermione holds out her face in anticipation. For a moment, it seems like Ron is actually being a tentative boyfriend in helping her remove the stain, before he takes a particularly wet blob and smears it across her cheek. She gasps and smacks at him in mock horror, as Harry burrows into the warm couch cushions, enjoying the familiarity of the exchange.

———

The next morning, Harry wakes up and something feels different. It takes him a while to figure out what it is, this odd fluttering sensation in the pit of his belly, but he realises that it could be some semblance of happiness. He had had an enjoyable evening yesterday, even after all the events of the day. He has also had his first nightmare-free sleep in a long time, and one he begs the Gods above is not his last. 

It is the weekend now, and this is always a tricky time for Harry. In theory, they should bring him freedom, a sense of relaxation and a chance to unwind. In reality, however, it is often the prime time for him to fester in a cloud of depression, for him to think about what he _should_ be doing now that it’s the bloody weekend, and then inescapably stressing when it doesn’t happen. For this reason, they are indeed usually his most unproductive time- the most anxiety-inducing- and he dreads them as they approach. At least in the week, he can pretend that it is okay that he lives in a sort of gloomy isolation rather than being someone who goes out every day, because, then, nobody does.

He decides now that he is going to make this weekend a good one. He will cling to this flicker of euphoria like it is his lifeline, because _fuck_ if he’s going to let it slip from his grasp before he is ready for it to. It is inevitable that the feeling will eventually fade, he knows, but Harry just prays and crosses his fingers that he can revel in it for long enough before it does. 

Greeting Harry like an old friend, the sun shines through the window, its rays reaching out to stroke every corner and surface in the room. Everything is touched by its light; it is radiant, and glimmering with the arrival of a new day. 

Justin whispers “Hey” from his left hand side and he rolls over to look at the boy. His auburn curls are always particularly messy in the morning, tumbling from their naturally quaffed style into disarray- though not quite at Harry’s level. In a slightly dreamy state, still fresh from slumber, Harry admits to himself that he finds him attractive- not that it means anything.

“Hi. Morning,” Harry smiles back at him. 

“Morning,” he breathes deeply, “I love days like this. Just makes you feel happy.” says Justin, returning the smile. He turns away from Harry to stare satisfactorily at the gently gleaming window frame. The paint is peeling a little around the edges, a formation of petal-like curls which are aglow with sunlight.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” says Harry, and you can’t imagine how incredible it feels to actually mean what he says for once.

“You know, Elliot and I have a pact. When the weather is sunny like this, we have to do something with our day that we usually wouldn’t. Take it as a chance to be productive, or something. It’s silly really, but it helped me after the war,” comments Justin, sitting up a little in his bed. The duvet puffs up around him, framing his small figure in clouds of linen. “When I just didn’t feel like getting out of bed.”

Harry tries to ignore the tension in his chest which strikes him with hard blows to the stomach- once, twice, then three times- at the mention of the war. Just because he is having a better day than usual, doesn’t mean that he is excused from his normal triggers. Oh well. He can’t be too disheartened- miracles don’t happen overnight, he supposes. 

Although, secretly, he deflates a bit inside. He had been getting his hopes up, however stupid that may be.

 _Recovery isn’t linear, Harry_ , Hermione's voice whispers in his head and he feels like flipping it off. Alright, alright, he gets it.

“Harry?” Justin asks, the articulate tone of his voice pulling Harry right out of the smother of fog beginning to gather in his mind.

“Yeah, no, I think that’s a great idea,” he forces himself to shake off the cold feeling and attempts to bring himself back to the room and the peace of a few moments ago. Only the genial smile on Justin’s face and the inviting warmth of the day manage to dissipate the growing pressure in his chest. He feels frustrated, but that won’t help him now, so he ignores it. “Might try that today, if you don’t mind me stealing your idea. I think it could be good to try and actually get something done rather than sit around on my arse all day.”

“Not at all! Go ahead.” says Justin enthusiastically. “In fact, want to do it together?”

Despite being pretty minor in the grand scale of things, this offer of companionship means the whole world to Harry. He has a friend- a real one- who isn’t just Ron or Hermione, and one who isn’t about to give up on him, or leave him. He hopes.

The cotton of his bed-sheets are blissfully soft against his skin, and he allows himself to be enveloped. Making way for his weight, the mattress dips, holding his sore body in its grasp- even though today feels like a good one, he still aches from head to toe. OK, to be fair, maybe he has been receiving other support as well- beds have truly been kind to him in his desperate, miserable hours of need.

Still, it is probably time to accept other help- something not from an inanimate object, no matter how much of a connection he feels with it. And even then, he can recognise that it’s not so much a loving bond, but more of an unhealthy obsession based on dependence.

So, he concludes, it’s time to get up. At least today it's easier. Small victories, Harry, small victories.

“Course. What do you wanna do?” asks Harry.

“I know this is a bit of a stupid one but I’ve been meaning to get round to practising making a Asmandrius Potion. Want to help?” says Justin, “And then we can do something for you if you would like.”

Harry is about to reply agreeably when an aggressive vibration buzzes from somewhere in the room. He has no idea what the culprit could be, but he is certain that it’s in Justin's direction. 

Groaning, Justin yanks his duvet off of his body and steps out of bed.

“Oi, shut that up will you, Justin?” complains Anthony from his bed. Harry had thought him asleep, but his wakefulness is apparent- though clearly fresh, judging from his still puffy eyes. The boy has massively come out of his shell in the past few days. Harry is glad, it has even encouraged him to do the same in many ways, but Anthony’s newfound ease with them also brought the knowledge that he can be honest-to-god unbearably grumpy. 

“Yeah, yeah, stop moaning. I’m doing it” says Justin as he slams open his drawer. He reaches in and pulls out something rectangular.

“For you, Harry.” And he chucks what Harry now realises is the Muggle phone onto his bed. It is a little irresponsible- Harry has to scramble to catch it- and he can't really comprehend how someone could be so careless with something so precious, and doubtlessly expensive. But then he remembers, a little bitterly, how wealthy Justin is; how quickly his things could be replaced if necessary. Justin may be one of the friendliest people that Harry has spoken to in a while, but they have lived vastly different lives. Is that a bad thing? He isn’t sure- a common motif.

Speaking of rich bastards, he notices with discomfort another one on the opposite side of the room. He hasn’t said anything as of yet, hasn’t bothered to open that pretentious mouth of his- as if he would- but Harry knows that he is awake. How, you might ask? 

One would think that with the deathly silence coming from the bed, Malfoy would perhaps just have gotten up already. Then when noticing his curtains glued tight together, with no chance of being pried open, one might presume that he is probably still sleeping. Harry, however, knows that he is neither of these things, _because_ there is no sound.

Asleep, Malfoy isn’t necessarily noisy, but you can certainly detect his presence. The bed frame creaks, and the sheets rustle loudly whenever he moves about, which is frequently. Every now and then he even snores. Harry would’ve thought that with the amount of effort the twat is going through to pretend he doesn’t exist, he would have thought to cast a Silencing spell on his bed, but, hey, it’s none of his business.

Except, it is- since most nights he can’t sleep thanks to Malfoy’s quiet, yet ear-splitting, huffs- so strangely vulnerable, so human.

Now there is nothing. And this is what signifies to Harry that Malfoy is awake on the other side of the dorm, probably eavesdropping. It makes him irritatingly self conscious of what stupid things he might have been saying.

“Harry! Answer it! The ringing doesn’t last forever!” Justin says sharply, shoving away the image of Malfoy listening in to some deep cavern at the back of his mind. His arms flail wildly in an exasperated manner like he thinks Harry is mentally deficient.

“And thank Merlin it doesn’t,” grumbles Anthony. “Answer it, Harry, for fucks sake.”

“OK, OK. I’m doing it,” he says, bothered by their hassling.

He grabs the phone, noting that the number is unknown. Panicking for a second because he doesn’t know which key to press, he pushes a bunch of random buttons in the hope that one will be right. He must hit the jackpot, because one goes through and a voice rings out of the speaker.

“Harry? Is that you?” says a female voice, high and breathy. After a moment, he realises that it is Erin. He hadn’t even considered that she might ring him, this wasn’t something he had prepared for. He feels caught off guard, but rolls with it. She just has that aura of ease which transcends space, reaches him even over however many miles they have between them.

“Yeah! Is this Erin?”

She laughs, loud even with the phone as a buffer, and Harry is thrown back into the memory of that summers day in the bustling grass of Hyde park. 

“Yep, you got it! I just got your text,” and Harry takes that as confirmation that the service at Hogwarts is truly shit, since he actually sent it days ago. He had begun to think that she wasn’t going to reply; had resigned himself to accepting this fated rejection. It had been disheartening- the fact that even strangers end up abandoning him- which doesn’t even make sense, considering that they are precisely that- _strangers_.

His heart is light now, chest lifted above the waves which threaten to drown him. 

“Oh yeah, that’s good,” he tries to conjure up something interesting to say and finds nothing except, “The weather is nice today.”

Erin snorts and laughs for a second time, in that infectious manner of hers which has Harry joining in, whether he likes it or not, “Where the fuck are you? It’s pissing it down with rain in London.”

Shit. Harry forgot that Hogwarts is indeed in the midst of the vast and empty Scottish Highlands- at least that is what he thinks, its unplottable nature could presumably have it anywhere and he wouldn’t know- rather than central England. It has always felt so close to him no matter where he is, which is usually in the South, trapped its rich, snobby suburbs. 

“Oh, forgot to say. I usually live in Scotland.”

“What! Really?” she huffs in amusement, “Harry, you really are a bit of a mystery, aren’t you?” And Harry finds that this makes him sound a whole lot more interesting than he actually is. Yeah, he killed a dark wizard. Big deal. He spent the entire time moping about it, and getting unnecessarily angry. Still does- even. In that respect, nothing has changed at all.There is not a single thing mysterious about him.

“Not at all, Erin. Not at all. So how are you?” he offers as a change of subject.

“Aha!” she says excitedly, “I see your tactic! Trying to change the subject won’t work on me Harry.” Damn it. “How come you were in London then ? Are you back in Scotland with the person you love?” She laughs again.

Shit times two. Harry has also apparently forgotten a second thing- this being Erin’s freakish and unprecedented comments about his love life. He thinks back to when they were squatted together underneath that tree, the leaves tumbling into their laps in smooth flurries, as she questioned him about his soulmate. Then, he had considered that she perhaps had Seer blood in her; his mind had been whirling with a tornado, blustering images of Ginny and their relationship gone wrong. Suddenly, he realises that he hasn’t really thought about her in the last few days.

Justin raises his eyebrows, and even Anthony stifles a laugh, breaking his grouchy mood. Having seen it used with Muggles, Harry is aware that you don’t usually have the person at the other end of the line playing out loud like this, but he doesn’t know how to change it, and he is too scared to signal for Justin’s help.

“There’s nobody like that. I thought we covered this, Erin. I was in London just for the summer, and I am genuinely just asking how you are!” he says, leaving out details about Grimmauld Place. It is probably best that she misunderstands him and the situation, in thinking that he was only there on holiday.

“Ah but Harry, I think you’ve forgotten something,” she says cryptically. A joke is coming, he feels it. Whilst he can’t even really consider himself her friend, let alone someone he knows her tells, this tone of her voice- the one which poses itself exactly as if it is building up to a crescendo- gives away her punchline without her even needing to say it. He doesn’t have to be her bestest pal in the whole universe to recognise this.

“And what’s that?”

“I’m a witch, remember?” says Erin with a muffled laugh. He hears some dishes clink, and a voice in the background.

“Of course. I’m so sorry I ever forgot, oh wise one,” he says drily and she giggles, “Where abouts are you?”

“In bed, thinking of you, darling,” she says flirtatiously, and despite the fact that it is an obvious overkill- a joke if he has ever seen one- Justin whoops in celebration and Anthony cackles, a casual, loosened side to him unseen up until now. Harry whips round, miming putting his finger to his lips in an attempt to get them to shut up. Clearly now too familiar with Harry- maybe he should’ve kept him at arms-length after all- Justin mouths something along the lines of, “Knew you two were fucking.”

With the gorilla sounds of Anthony’s guffaws rounding up again, Harry makes the sage decision to ignore them, and flips them off as he does so. 

“Thought my heart was devoted to another?” he asks Erin jokingly and almost wants to bat his eyelashes in a teasing gesture, before he remembers that she isn’t actually in the room with him. He abruptly stops himself in time- thank god. Justin’s proving to be a nightmare anyway, and goodness knows what he would do if he had actually seen Harry fluttering his eyes like some floozy actress from the 50s. 

“Oh yes, but I’m sure they won’t mind me shooting my shot whilst we’re here,” says Erin, “Anyways, I’m at home right now. Here’s my flatmates. Say hi, guys!” A clash of greetings boom from the speaker, a dozen voices all at once, and the volume makes Harry cringe. They sound friendly, and Harry wonders what it would be like to live normally like that: renting a flat with your mates, having a day job, doing the dishes together in the evening. Mundane things, but a merry life.

Mind, his life at Grimmauld wasn’t too different from that- minus the mates, the job, and the housework. Add a strangling layer of trauma and anxiety which cripples him daily, and then you would pretty much have his days. 

“Hey!” shouts Justin and Harry swats at him. This boy is a pest, he swears. Their friendship is cancelled, over, called off- whatever you want to say. 

“Who is this, Harry?” says Erin with a laugh and he can imagine her wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. The dark haired, freckle-dusted, grinning girl of his memory would certainly do so. 

“Justin. He sucks, and please ignore anything he says.”

“Don’t be stupid, my love. Justin, any friend of Harry’s is a friend of mine,” she swears, as if they have been close all their lives, rather than two people who barely know each other's names, let alone any detail of real substance. 

“Do you hear that, Harry?” says Justin but Harry isn’t listening, not anymore. Some part of his brain, the bit which cares about his social life- his friends, his reputation- shuts off. 

Malfoy is climbing out the bed, suddenly fully dressed despite never having left the spot to collect any clothes. Harry hasn’t heard a single shuffle, rustle or breath, either. Since yesterday’s incident, since Malfoy snapped at Harry- the first real sign of, well, _anything_ in their time back here- Harry hasn’t seen him. As much as he has been fervorously trying to not think about it, he cannot help the interest, the curiosity, the questions, which bubble within him. Just why does Malfoy not want him to speak to him? Why is he not telling the teachers exactly what happened? The more he is denied answers, the more he craves them.

In a disconcerting twist of events, Malfoy is the only other person that confuses Harry as much as he does himself. It all used to be so simple.

He looks different today, put together, and even more angular than usual. Sharp, as if he could cut Harry in two, maybe more, with just a glance. Dressed from head to toe in black, his pale skin and snowy hair stand out as starkly as the moon does in the sky. What ruins the effect is the swollen black eye, and the dark splatter of bruises which lead a trail down his cheek and neck, before disappearing beneath his high collar.

Then Harry’s suspicions about how deathly his stares are are confirmed when Malfoy looks at him, an unbothered, unfeeling mask on his face which Harry just wants to tear away in frustration, and his insides freeze. Malfoy’s right eye twitches a little, and he blinks slowly, before turning away. He gathers his books from his desk and leaves the room swiftly, not caring to say farewell to any of them. 

It takes a long time for Harry to unthaw. His conversation with Erin fades into the background of his conscience; his mouth moves mechanically, abandoned by his brain, which has wandered off into an abyss of white hair and mottled bruises.

\-------

Sticking to his word about his and Elliot’s pact on sunny days equalling productivity, Justin drags Harry to the Potions lab with him. Harry has never explicitly said so, but he hates this room. He hates how it looks, how it smells, how it draws some of his worst memories to the surface.

The subject has always felt like his own personal brand of poison. Perhaps had he grown up nurtured in the classroom, no doubt how his Mum would have pictured it with all her misplaced trust in Snape, he might have liked it more. But from his very first moment here, when Snape had strode in, black robes swishing behind him menacingly as if they might engulf any stray children in his path, he felt at odds with room. The cold, claustrophobic stone walls resemble the dingy, dripping ones of a prison, and feel like it too. Even with Slughorn, who had been much kinder, Harry had experienced some of the worst parts of himself here. It is where he had lied- had let that fucking book overcome him. And for what reason? 

He cannot give one, at least none that he deems legitimate enough to have warranted that gruesome outcome. And yet try as he might to forget it, it still happened- Malfoy had almost bled out in the girl’s bathroom, blood pouring out of him like a flower opens its petals. The image of it makes him feel nauseous and the bubbling red liquid in the Pewter cauldron suddenly appears a lot more unappealing. 

Alas, he is here for Justin. 

“So what is the potion for?” he inquires. If he is having to spend free hours in this dungeon, he wants a bloody good justification for doing so. 

They have been here a while already, and have been making easy conversation about a variety of topics, but primarily the things they miss about Muggle life. It is in the fact that Justin spends so little of his energy, is so full of comments himself that he doesn’t expect much from Harry, that Harry finds endless pleasure. Harry has already expressed his adoration for the TV, and Justin has been recommending him films to watch. So far in his short life, the extent of his movie knowledge stretches to the _Star Wars_ franchise, and that is about it. He does love it though- ever since him and Ron had sat down with a Butterbeer and gotten through the whole thing. He doesn’t own a highly classy, extremely elegant, pair of merchandised socks for nothing, thank you very much.

Justin stirs the potion absentmindedly as he flips through the instructions, trying to find a specific direction. 

“Fuck, I can’t find it!” Justin says manically and Harry takes the rod from him, so that he doesn’t need to worry about doing two things at once. Murmuring his gratitude, Justin wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. For being buried under a lake, and encased in cool stone, the lab is proving to be unfairly hot.

“Aha!” says Justin in victory, pointing his finger to a smudged line in the book, “Got it!”

Harry waits patiently for him to wrap his head around the words, because he knows that distractions can be excruciating when you are having to read over the same sentence for the second, or even third time, because your brain is having a meltdown. That was him with the takeaway menu over the summer. It seems comical now but it made him feel dumb and useless.

“Just gotta add in these, and then I think we leave it to brew for a bit,” says Justin, sprinkling in the Holly leaves delicately, as if he is afraid too many at once will make the whole thing explode. Seamus’ escapades have clearly left him scarred for life. “Anyway, what were you saying? Oh yeah, it’s a type of sleeping potion. For me, not anyone else. I’m not dodgy, I swear.”

“A sleeping potion? Like Dreamless Sleep?” asks Harry curiously and with a shudder. He has come very close to developing an addiction to the substance in the past few months. On those nights where the flashbacks and fear just won’t stop flooding through the gates, he feels like Eve must have done with the Apple upon seeing the potion glimmering in his bathroom cabinet. It is a dangerous game, but oh so worth it.

Until it fucks you up forever, as Hermione had shown him. She had taken him to St Mungo’s Rehabilitation Ward with tears in her eyes after finding him unconscious on the bathroom floor, refusing to wake up even with the use of spells. The people there had shocked him back into reality, thank god. Even in the mess of a state he was in, he could still recognise how frightened the idea of a future like this made him. 

He doesn’t want to end up living his life in some hospital bed- he wants to get _better_.

“Kind of. I get nightmares sometimes, but it became too hard to explain why I was screaming to Elliot back when he didn’t know that I was a wizard, so I considered taking Dreamless Sleep. But it would need to be every night,” says Justin, a hint of sadness in his voice. This is the most fragile and honest Harry has ever seen him, and he is unexpectedly finding it comforting rather than overwhelming. Maybe there is some truth in it being beneficial to air your feelings after all.

“Oh, Justin,” Harry balks, “Tell me you didn’t start taking it every day. It fucks you up.”

“No, no. Thank god,” he says with a profound sigh, “I might have, had my mum not found me an alternative. This. It’s called Asmandrius, and it acts similarly but the effects aren’t as drastic. It basically just dulls your senses once you are asleep, rather than actually sending you to sleep itself. It also meant that Elliot could wake me up if need be unlike Dreamless, which completely knocks you out. Might’ve freaked him out, y’know- to find his boyfriend practically like a corpse in the night.”

Harry is more than a little interested. He wonders whether Justin would judge him if he asked for some too. It wouldn’t be like him to, but Harry really doesn’t like those moments of revelation- the ones where the other person sees through your shell, directly into the place where you are most vulnerable, and realises _ah, you’re fucking insane_. Hermione and Ron may have gone about it thoughtfully, but he still felt it. Their scared eyes gave away their fear, whether it was for, or even of him.

Harry looks up at the curly-haired boy beside him, who is smiling timidly, appearing almost afraid, and he suddenly understands that this is that exact same moment for Justin. He needs to be there for his new friend, needs to convey that he _gets it_ , like he wishes someone could have for him.

“I understand,” Harry smiles, “I had a similar issue in summer- unfortunately minus the boyfriend thing,” and his face flares with heat when he realises how that could be interpreted. 

Justin just smirks a fraction, his thin lips curling at the corners and his eyes twinkling in amusement- but it isn't malicious, so Harry lets it go. “Look at us, eh, Harry? Can't handle a bit of sleep.”

“Hey!” he pretends to be offended and shoves playfully at Justin’s side, “Speak for yourself. I’m a strong guy.”

“If you insist. I’ll ignore the fact that I’ve seen you crying at least twice this year if you ignore how I suck on my thumb in my sleep,” Justin says grinning, and Harry can’t be mad at the comment when he remembers how utterly, hilariously true it is- he has in fact seen Justin having a gnaw on this particular body part, but hadn’t even considered it weird until now. He is just used to people’s coping mechanisms, he supposes. 

They laugh and suddenly the Potions lab doesn’t seem so dismal, not when it is filled with these joyful sounds. Snape had never invited joviality, his greasy hair practically soaking wet with bad-temper, and people had been so perplexed by Slughorn’s erratic nature that his lessons had always felt off-beat. They weren’t even funny, like Trelawney's had been, just weird.

To Harry’s dismay, the moment is broken when the door creaks open, revealing Malfoy. His face blanches at the sight of them, and he doesn’t move for a moment.

“Malfoy? Can we help you?” says Justin. 

With a level of kindheartedness that must be superhuman, considering that Malfoy is all kinds of aggravating, Justin has been consistently patient with the twat. Most mornings he even bothers to wish him a good day, which usually goes unanswered, apart from one anomaly. Malfoy’s face had scrunched up and, looking like it physically pained him, muttered a quiet “You too,” before his skinny legs had scurried him away.

In the dank room, where the only noise is some faint Potion-bubbling and gurgling of the lake beyond the walls, Malfoy’s silence is deafening. 

“Malfoy?” Harry questions, the lack of response irritating him. For some reason, at his voice, Malfoy’s head snaps up.

“Sorry,” he says, and then he looks immediately pissed off to have apologised. All of this is gripping to Harry, whose brain still hasn’t decided whether it wants Malfoy to piss off the edge of the Earth, or whether it should attempt to try and figure him out. He concludes that there is probably a happy median, and he will find it even if it is the death of him because he can’t live in this unsure, confusing, indeterminable state of emotion. 

“Do you nee-” Harry says, assuming an aura of helpfulness, even if only to mask the fact that he actually wants to know why Malfoy is here. But he never finishes his words, for Malfoy abruptly turns away and, in a split second, withdraws from sight. 

He and Justin share a glance, and Justin shrugs his shoulder before exclaiming, “Crap!” as his potion begins to bubble over. Chuckling, Harry rushes to help him and, hey, if they both burnt their robes in the process, who can blame them? It is all in the name of magic.

Later, after they have been for a stroll around the grounds, Justin departs from him to head for dinner. He had implored Harry to come with him, but Harry cannot stomach the idea of food presently. If someone were to ask why, he couldn’t give an answer that made the least bit of sense. He would expect to have an appetite after a day which, in the end, turned out to be rather active. However, he finds that as soon as his mind begins to close off for the day, as he knew it inevitably would, he can only think of one thing. 

Subconsciously, his body takes him back to the Potions classroom. The castle is quiet at this time, since everyone is at dinner. In the distance, he can hear the animated voices and clattering of cutlery in the Great Hall, but it fades as he heads further down the corridors and stairwells, until there is nothing but his footsteps and his head which is beginning to pound. He is tired. Today has been a good day, he managed to make it so- refused to give into any creeping anxiety- and he is proud. But that doesn’t mean that he can keep going forever. As he has said before, his pleasures are brief. When they come, he embraces them with open and gracious arms, knowing that they will soon flitter away. Like when you wake up from a dream and have it slip from your memory within minutes, he then quickly forgets what the happiness feels like. 

So now his fatigue levels are rapidly increasing, but knowing that it probably comes from the fact that he has been constructive- and social- is a satisfying thought. There is little worse than being tired with everything for no reason other than life being exhausting.

The singular thing in his mind now, other than bed, is Malfoy. Surprise surprise. He wants to know all the the comments left unsaid, all the emotions being hidden, so badly it alarms him a little.

He isn’t sure how going back to the Potions lab could help him, but his intuition is leading him there, so he is following it. There isn’t much he trusts in this world, but his gut instinct is almost always right. The only advice he would take over it is Hermione’s, because he is certain that in her entire life, she is yet to be proven wrong.

Arriving at the door, he pulls back. Inside the room, he can hear some clinking of the bottles. He stays like that for a moment, in case some further indication comes to light by sound alone- but nothing happens. Because of this, and because he thinks if he doesn’t go to bed soon, his body might fail on him, he peers round the corner, chancing being seen. 

Malfoy is in there, sitting at the desk by himself, and Harry inhales sharply at the image. In all the darkness, you probably wouldn’t be able to see him had he not been born with the same pallor as a ghost, and hair to match. What makes him the most startled is that Malfoy is wearing his glasses, and has his robes shucked off. They make him look so very different- much more approachable, the roundness of the frames softening the harshness of his facial structure- and they keep slipping down his nose. The perspiration in the room is making Malfoy’s shirt stick to his back, and Harry can see his backbones poking through the thin material like they are about to rip through. 

He wonders why it is so sweltering hot at this time of the evening, until he realises that Malfoy is brewing a potion. The cauldron is small, and so black it is almost invisible in the shadowy room, but definitely there.

Curiosity piqued so high it makes his head feel like it is going to burst open, Harry is glued to the doorframe. Every now and then, Malfoy pauses in writing something down on the piece of paper in front of him to follow the next step in the brewing process. Without fail, each time he raises out of his chair to reach across to the cauldron, his glasses slide down and Harry can hear faint curses, of which he can relate. He never thought he would be able to say that- that him and Malfoy have something in common, even if it is something so inconsequential as greasy glasses.

Harry isn’t sure how long he is there, but he can tell by the gradual changes to the mixture that it is sometime. The night dawns even closer, making it even harder to discern what is happening in the room as the shade of twilight grows. His brain is fried, and his limbs are numb, and this is partly why he cannot move from the spot, even if he wanted to. If Malfoy were to make sudden gestures to leave, he thinks he may just have to resign himself to getting caught.

He watches as Malfoy does something else, something new in tonight’s episode of _getting even more confused by stalking Malfoy_. He has to admit that it is that now- stalking. The echoes of sixth year make him feel violently ill, with everything that comes with it, but he must proceed. It wouldn’t be particularly useful for him to vomit now, just as Malfoy has let down his guard. Granted, that is because he thinks nobody is watching but, frankly, to hell with black and white morals- they went out of the window a long time ago. We live in a grey world; not even one tone- dozens of different hues- and we just have to learn to deal with that uncomfortable truth.

Malfoy hurries to the store cupboard, and stuffs a plethora of various ingredients into his leather satchel. His hair is ruffled and parting in waves, nothing like his usual combed style of the daytime. He pours the contents of the cauldron into an empty flask, before shoving that in his bag too. It seems to be heavy, and the glass jangles together noisily as he moves about. 

Seemingly clearing up, Malfoy tries to cast a _Scourgify_ on his cauldron, but it doesn’t appear to work. He grabs at his hair, messing it up even further, and his glasses finally just plop off his nose. In irritation, he vigorously thrusts the cauldron into his bag too, which despite being quite petite, still barely fits. 

Harry realises he should probably move, and just about manages to force his joints into action to dive around the corner before Malfoy is tip-toeing out of the room. If he were a teacher, he would think that Malfoy certainly looks suspicious- flustered, a bag which is bulging to the brim and clinks with every step, and smelling like the chemicals of the potions lab- so it makes sense that Malfoy seems a bit nervous. His eyes dart back and forth throughout the corridor, somehow missing Harry’s slim body. 

Perhaps concluding that it is safe, he folds up the piece of paper on which he has been scrawling all evening, and places it in a side pocket on his satchel. Harry observes all this with hawk-eyes, despite his lids being heavy and threatening to drop closed. 

Malfoy creeps away into the dead of night, a thin figure drowned by the shadows, and Harry stares at the empty space left behind until the Siren’s song of his bed cannot be resisted any longer, and he trudges off too, hoping that he doesn’t run into Malfoy in their dorm room.

Luckily, the coast is clear. The curtains around his bed are shut, announcing Malfoy’s presence, whether Harry sees him or not. For the whole duration of the night, Harry stares at the bedframe, wondering at the boy and his secrets fastened inside of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hope u enjoyed reading!!! THIS TOOK SO LONG SO PLS COMMENTS AND KUDOS i beg... i would be very appreciative <33333333 !!! i tried to keep this chapter quite centred on harry and his friends because i feel like they havent gotten enough development yet- but of course still building the plot (which by the way is going to be quite big once it comes- just setting the foundations... i have a feeling this fic is gonna be way longer than i had originally planned)! 
> 
> also regarding corona, i hope everyone is safe and sound. i live in the uk and i feel like nothing is happening, its terrifying. sending everyone lots of love- if you ever need to chat let me know :) x


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry confronts draco.... but messily... because he is chaotic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys... im really sorry ive been MIA for over a month (i'll be adding some more detail on me personally in the end notes), i hope you enjoy this! its about 7k and took me a while because i felt like it was quite important? harry and draco have quite a significant exchange in this! this will be a turning point! (By the way i have a proper plot for this planned,, thats why im setting up so many things with draco (the letter, the potion making, the spell he was practising) but it is just taking ages to build! hope you dont mind slow builds! im worried everyone has forgotten what i have already written so i will try my best to reference back to the events in the book as reminders to everyone!xxxx

You know when you wake up, and for the tiniest fraction of time, you forget who you are? Everything is beautifully unrecognisable, and you feel for a moment what it would be like if you existed but didn’t live. There is nothing and no-one that you remember. Sometimes, Harry wakes up and he hates this feeling. It frightens him, that moment where you fall back into reality. Today, he loves it. As he comes into consciousness, he revels in blissful ignorance, and all he knows is the duvet around him. He is not someone with any burden other than that of his cotton sheets.

But then, having wrestled with his thoughts through an unsatisfying, tiresome night, when it hits, it is with a pit straight to his stomach. The transition is overwhelming and he longs for sleep again. The stone in his belly refuses to budge, full of enmity at the idea of having to get up so prematurely. Why is it that just as he manages to sleep, the morning begins? It pisses him off to no end. This world is so deeply cruel and, _no_ , Harry isn’t being dramatic. Would it be the worst thing in the world for a boy to get some good quality sleep once in a while?

Alas, he has no choice but to bury that pit somewhere where the sun doesn't shine as signs of the forthcoming day start to show themselves. This is primarily the ceasing of the snoring from his roommates, which, at an almost Ron-like level, blare out aggressively through the night. Anthony, in particular, is a powerhouse of noise once sleep takes him. For a boy who started out so quiet, he has proven to be rather raucous in his grandest moments.

Malfoy is up first, as always, and Harry won’t pretend that he isn’t watching him, as uncomfortable as that admission makes him feel. His morning routine includes, and is limited to, spending a strange amount of time in his curtain-encased bed, before travelling swiftly to the bathroom. In the distance between the two, Harry barely gets a chance to register the other boy’s appearance. He is beginning to suspect that Malfoy deliberately moves so fast in order to ensure that nobody sees him before he has donned the groomed look which materialises in the bathroom. Harry thinks that is ridiculous. As if anybody gives two fucks about Malfoy’s bed hair. The twat needs to get over himself if he thinks any of them care that much because _really_ , they don’t.

Or perhaps he just doesn’t want to allow anybody to have the opportunity to speak to him. Both are equally likely. His vanity, or his reluctance to let anyone say two words to him? Harry can see how it could be both. Somehow he must use the bed as some sort of dressing room because he always emerges before running to the bathroom in full attire. The image of Malfoy struggling to shove his trousers on and toppling about in the cramped space amuses Harry endlessly. 

Either way, Malfoy’s attempts to hide himself from the rest of them are futile. Harry doesn’t need to see him physically as a mess to know that he isn’t quite right. He is erratic, yet subdued. Changed. Harry hates it. Something is up. Whether it is just the widespread trauma, ever so popular at the moment thanks to an especially evil Dark Lord, or something deeper, is a mystery to Harry. 

He remembers last night, as memory gushes into his mind along with full consciousness. How could he forget the way that Malfoy had been wrecked with sweat from brewing potions in the heat of the room? It was a shocking sight, so different to his usual appearance. Even at his worst- the trial, the war- Malfoy has never looked quite as willingly sloppy as he did then. It was apparent in the war and its aftermath that Malfoy knew he looked less than perfect, and was not pleased about the matter. 

This was different. It was unbothered. It was careless. It was free.

And Harry doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he now has to pretend he didn’t just see that, and that it didn’t unnerve him on different levels. And, fuck- whilst he is at it- he hates that he can’t just forget about stupid Malfoy and his stupid glasses and dragon, and go on with his day like everyone else in this unjust world. He seriously considers that even Malfoy doesn’t think about Malfoy as much as Harry does, and that is saying something considering his narcissism. It doesn’t help that the dragon seems to have disappeared entirely and Harry is beginning to question once again whether he made it up in some delusional, sleep-deprived, depressive state.

This wasn’t the plan for this year. On the one hand, he didn’t particularly have one, other than try not to get yourself mixed up with another near-death experience lest you die anyway from the stress. On the other, he is rather peeved off that his mind has taken him on yet another rollercoaster. He did not expect to be so thrown off course by his own emotions, and he is someone who is used to that. This isn’t just a little crack in the course, like when he starts his days with a smile and ends them with a frown. No, it is as if someone has come and pulled the lever and now Harry is hurtling down a track with no brake to stop him and with no awareness of how it happened.

When coming back to Hogwarts, Harry had made a promise to himself and to Cindy the spider that he would ignore Malfoy. Unexpectedly, Malfoy then turned that on its head by being so bloody distant. Chiming in with his happy eyes and boisterous beard, Hagrid had then advised him to treat him as a stranger. Harry had liked that. It was a nice sentiment. Helpful, in theory.

And then Malfoy just had to come into that Potions lab, disturbing the small level of peace that Harry had managed to build with Justin. 

Sorry, Hagrid. Harry appreciates the input, and any sane person would run with it, but it doesn’t seem likely that he is going to be able to just switch his mind off like that. Even if he wanted to make nice, Malfoy clearly doesn’t. 

Now what?

As normal, Malfoy shoots to the bathroom, leaving a blur of black and white in Harry’s vision, a streak of monotone in the warm room.

Harry wiggles his toes into his duvet, appreciating the crisp cotton and solemnly swearing that he will never buy a pair of silk trousers even if Malfoy were to hold him at wand-point. There is happiness in simplicity, and he hasn’t fought tooth and nail to stay alive just to fuss about with luxury. Keep your silk pyjamas and fancy clothing, Malfoy, he thinks. His raggedy tartan-print pyjama bottoms have served him just as well.

In a strangely contemplative mood, Harry flexes his fingers and burrows his body down into the bed’s warmth. He revels in the sensations, allowing them to flow through him, reminding him of his presence. 

Sometimes he doesn’t feel real. Ever since he saw a glimpse of the after-life, he has secretly harboured the frightening yet freeing thought that he is actually dead, and that this is all a figment of his imagination somehow. But no person in death could feel the rustle of the cotton so vividly as it brushes against his moving limbs, no person could recognise something as small as the vibration in the floorboard as Malfoy’s lightly steps out of the bathroom.

It is a testament to the intensity of his dreamlike state that he has been thinking as long as Malfoy has been in there. The twat’s routine is longer than anybody he knows, even Luna, who likes to spend a solid half an hour twisting her hair into complicated styles, as he has heard. He wonders how that compares to Ginny’s quick and clean morning showers, followed only by a brief scrape of the ponytail and scour of the designated clothing chair. Their dynamic must be interesting. She has never been one to fuss about, and maybe she and Harry are too similar in that way. It has occurred to him before that maybe he needs someone to make him care about the acute fine things in life. Growing up with nothing in the Dursley’s household, and then battling just for pure survival, Harry has never had the time, nor cared to. It just didn’t seem important. 

Mind, it still isn’t now- not really in the grand scheme of things- but he will admit that his and Ginny’s unbothered way of living didn't really spark the excitement in him that he had thought it might. He can see how Luna, with her perplexing and elaborate style, both in clothing and lifestyle, would be good for Ginny. Something new, to shake up the stale routines that she, and he, had settled into. He wishes them great joy, he does, even as he frowns a little. 

The jolting vibrations from the floorboards through his bed frame which were small now grow stronger, and Harry realises that Malfoy has put on those boots of his. He smiles minutely to himself at the memory of his lopsided figure hobbling down the entrance way, one foot displaying that loud lavender sock in all it’s grand purpleness. 

Cracking open an eye, he watches Malfoy gather up his belongings. He shoves it all in the leather satchel that he had been carrying last night, and in all the movement, one of the pockets pop open, displaying the piece of paper that Malfoy had been scribbling on all night. Harry’s hands itch to grab it. He can pretty much assume that it is significant, perhaps even containing some crucial information, with the way Malfoy had been clutching it so tightly throughout the evening. At one point, Malfoy had even let his glasses slip off his nose in favour of finishing his sentence, as if he couldn’t bear to let the thought slip away from him. Granted, he certainly wouldn’t have allowed himself to look so, well, so _scruffy_ had he known that he had an audience. 

Of one- Harry, creeping again. He shakes his head at himself internally, cringing, whilst still observing the boy in front of him, and above all, the letter. Realistically, he knows that Malfoy is not plotting some great downfall of Hogwarts. Harry may not understand the way his brain works- warped by that unnatural blonde hair of his most likely. He has long suspected that upon Malfoy’s birth, Lucius was horrified to find out that he was brunette, and has been bleaching Malfoy Junior’s hair ever since in shame. However, something in him does recognise a sameness in the twat. Some sort of sense of confusion, and perhaps guilt. Harry can empathise. For all the people who died on his watch. The fierceness of that burden crushes him at every given moment, like the air has turned to heavy lead.

Of course, Malfoy could still be hatching an evil plan for all Harry truly knows. In a moment of sudden realisation, Harry contemplates why he thinks he could ever foresee Malfoy’s actions again when all the dickhead has done is surprise him ever since they got back to Hogwarts.

During their adolescence, Malfoy had always been sort of predictable in that schoolboy bully manner of his. Before each fight, Harry could pretty much preempt how it would play out if he were lucky enough to not be blinded by the rage that Malfoy invoked in him. 

It all changed in sixth year. Harry no longer had any grip on Malfoy. Even when he did, his firmness of mind was skewed astray by the opinions of others, like Ron and Hermione, yes, but also Remus and Mcgonagall. It is like that now, except his own mind and Malfoy’s bizarre fluctuating behaviour are now suddenly the saboteurs to him understanding the other boy. Still, his instincts do tell him that Malfoy isn’t set out to end the world singlehandedly in a fit of revenge for Voldemort and the ruined reputation of his family. Unfortunately for Malfoy, his instincts also tell him that it is essential he reads that parchment, and so that is what he shall do. 

The paper taunts him, hanging slightly out of the pocket as Malfoy leaves the room without any farewell. When Justin turns to ask Harry a question, he is met with Harry’s stare following the vision of the sheet, even after it is long gone.

\-----

Harry thinks about the paper all day, wondering what could be on it. Half of him wants to be concerned that he is so dedicated to acquiring the knowledge but the other half, the louder half, says _screw logic_. When has it ever worked in his favour? The very existence of Hogwarts and magic itself denies reason, when you really think about. His entire life is illogical. There is no reason to get worked up about it now.

Also, and more importantly, he thinks that if he spends more than ten seconds asking himself why he truly cares, he might implode with anxiety and unwanted self-realisations. Right now, he doesn’t want to ponder any longer on the reasonings behind his behaviour. He just wants to get through the day and if that measly piece of parchment happens to float his way, who is he hurting by giving it a read?

He and Ron spend most of the day sitting out in the grass. The late September sun makes up for the fact that Harry is feeling spent today, as if the contentment he experienced yesterday has sucked him dry. Harry had been nervous this morning as he brushed his teeth in a tired daze, worrying that a lot would be demanded from him today when he has so little to give. It is a comfortable temperature, hot enough to sit outside but not too hot that they are sticky in their robes. Some crickets chirp cheerfully from the bushes behind them, singing a harmonious tune. Thankfully, the relaxing nature of the coming evening stops him from having to contribute much to any conversation. Harry feels guilty that he is like this, even with Ron. He isn’t sure what has happened to him that he gets panicked about spending an afternoon outside with his best friend. Oh- wait- no, he does. The war. His fucked up brain. What else would it be?

There had been so much hope in him yesterday, but it was unrealistic and naive. As if one good day with Justin could fix all his problems- he scoffs at himself, what utter bullshit. This and the lack of manifestation from Malfoy’s dragon is proving him delusional. 

Observing the grounds, he feels disheartened. All around him are people doing what he cannot. There is a gift exchange in the distance, he sees someone’s boyfriend send up a flurry of shimmering pink bubbles in the shape of hearts into the air and a squeal of delight before the pair begin to kiss, embracing each other like it is their last breath. It must be their anniversary. On his other side, there is a group of first years playing tag. They have muddy knees and he can imagine the scolding they will get from their Professors as clear as day. One girl runs particularly hard, her feet hitting the ground like she is fighting it, and manages to tackle her friend, screaming “You’re it!” in peals of laughter. Rolling around in the earth, they get wonderfully dirty before collapsing in wheezes.

He wishes he could spare this same energy for Ron. Merlin knows the man deserves it, with everything he has to put up with in regards to Harry and his mood swings, let alone his own issues. Fred flashes before his eyes with a cheeky grin and his heart lurches. He wonders how many times a day Ron sees him. Beside Harry, laying on his back with his arms behind his head, Ron has his eyes closed, and Harry imagines sadly that he could be at this very moment. His ginger hair has created a halo of red around his face and looks like fire amongst the grass.

A heart bubble floats over from where the couple are still celebrating. It hovers above him and he stares at it for several moments, not expecting to feel so oddly touched by how close he has been permitted to get to this display of love. It is a rosy colour and glows ever so slightly, so that when Harry reaches up his hand to touch it, it leaves a blushing hue on his brown skin. Like an idiot, he gives it a prod and it disappears with a loud _pop_ , raining gold glitter onto his face. 

He blinks away what had fallen into his eye, and luckily it seems willing to go. As he opens them again with caution, he notices that Ron is grinning at him from the floor. 

“You’re glittery, mate,” says Ron with amusement. He sits up and wiggles his long freckled nose humorously as he scans Harry’s face.

“Whereabouts?” asks Harry, rubbing at his cheek. When he pulls his hand away, it is bejewelled in gold sparkles and he groans. Switching to his other cheek, he does it again and receives the same distressing news when he once more brings back his hand. “Fuck. Ron, is it everywhere?”

“Pretty much.” If it is even possible, Ron’s grin widens and he begins to point at a dozen spots on his own face. “It’s here,” he says, jabbing himself particularly harshly in the tip of his nose, just where it begins to curve up. It goes slightly red where he pokes it. “Here, too” he says, prodding his large forehead right in the centre. “Oh, yeah, and here,” and then he proceeds to gesture to the whole of himself with a hearty cackle. 

“Ron! Help!” says Harry with a grumble, thinking of all the looks he will get once back indoors. He doesn’t need any more attention drawn to him, and Hogwarts seems to be disturbingly bored with the lack of action in the school after such eventful years. It can be assured that a glimmering Harry Potter would not escape their notice.

A group of young teenagers walk past and upon regarding something, presumably him, they start to giggle. Only a select few are polite enough to stifle their laughter and even then, it is only once they see who he is. He sighs, resigned and fed up with the day. 

“I dunno what you want me to do, mate! Why don’t you try an Evanesco?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Harry bluntly.

“What?” says Ron, confused, “Why?”

“Because that is a Vanishing charm, Ron, and I don’t know about you, but I feel like doing one on my own face would most likely be a bad plan!”

Huffing and deflated from the rebuttal of his innovative suggestion, Ron slouches back and shrugs his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to be glittery until you use the showers then.” And this triggers something in Harry’s memory.

“I know!” he says, proud of himself for being able to remember the right spell to use- even if it is a third year charm- considering his mind feels like it has been skinned, chopped and skewed. He points his wand at his face, trying to ignore how menacing that feels. “Scourgify!” he exclaims with confidence.

Ron just shakes his head, looking embarrassed. Whether this is on Harry’s behalf, or because he doesn’t want to be spotted next to a human disco ball, Harry isn’t sure. “Didn’t work, mate. Must be some type of extra special, sticky love glitter.”

Harry moans loudly, feeling like all his despair and grief at the very fact that this day has the audacity to exist is coming up from the pit he forced down this morning. It must be revenge for pushing it away. “It didn’t?” 

“Nah,” he shakes his head again, “I’m sorry to break it to you. If it helps, I think it suits you.” He erupts into laughter when Harry glares at him, harbouring a secret plan that involves a whole army of heart bubbles and Ron also getting soaked in glitter. 

As he watches the smile lines of Ron’s colossal grin melt his frown away, his annoyance fades. He vows to himself that he would take a thousand soppy glitter bombs if it were to make Ron forget about his own misgivings for even a moment. The bubbles glide above the two of them, ostentatiously pink and twinkling, and he lets his frustration fly away with them. 

\----------

They take a detour on their way back from the grounds to visit Hermione, who is so busy in the library that she doesn’t even take any notice of Harry’s current state. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, but strands are flinging free by the second. He believes the whole style is dangerously close to imploding into a mass of curls any minute now, and so he stands a few steps back. Poor Ron is on the front-line, hugging her from behind. 

She has papers strewn everywhere on the desk, and he has no clue what she is even working on. From the looks of it, it has transcended homework and has perhaps entered another realm completely. Rooming with Ravenclaws has been good for her in a lot of aspects, Harry knows; they provide her with the intellectual discussion that he and Ron have never been able to give to her. However, as he eyes the obscene spread of work, he has to admit he feels a little afraid. It looks like it could eat him alive; Hermione looks like she already has been.

He stands back, giving Ron and Hermione a moment together, and also himself some distance from the sheer number of books. They make him feel guilty as he thinks of his distinct lack of homework with shame, and he tries to recount his own. After a quick scour of his memory, Harry concludes that it is extremely likely that he has only completed one set piece as of yet.

You know what? Good for him. It is probably more than he accomplished his entire four months at Grimmauld Place. Other than befriending Cindy and getting himself well-acquainted with the TV, that is. Important, adult things.

The lanterns flicker in the dim light of the library, casting shadows upon the walls of books. It is pretty empty now, being a Sunday evening, just a few stray study-fanatics dotted around. This is fortunate for him, considering that he is covered head to toe in glitter. On the way over, he steadfastly refused to meet people’s gaze and Ron had tried his hardest to assure Harry that nobody was looking. Ron is not a good liar. 

He is surprised that Madam Pince hasn’t come hurtling round the corner with her finger already raised to her paper-thin lips, ordering Ron to shut his gob. She could be at dinner, it is around that time, but somehow Harry has the impression that she never eats and rather feeds on the fear of the first years that she terrifies.

Suddenly, Harry sees a flash of white in his peripheral vision. Malfoy is a few rows down, his body only just visible at the edge of the table. He is once again sat up straight, scribbling neatly on a piece of paper; his tidy pile is a massive contrast to Hermione’s own desk. His glasses are nowhere in sight. Oddly enough, Harry notices that he is tapping his legs obsessively. Is he anxious? Maybe he is just bored. It doesn’t matter- seeing Malfoy display any kind of outward emotion seems to ignite a mix of curiosity and relief in Harry. 

Merlin, how he wishes Malfoy would try to engage Harry in an argument- just one more time, that would certainly be enough for Harry to feel satisfied. He simply needs a sense of closure in their animosity, he is sure of it.

Acting upon impulse, Harry sidles down the aisle, being as quiet as possible. Malfoy is as quick as a cat and could leave any second if he notices Harry approaching. It definitely seems to be a recurring theme; Harry won’t let it happen this time. He has no clue what he is going to say once he gets to him, but his gut leads him forward and tells him that it doesn’t matter. In retrospect, he should have told his gut to go to hell.

He glances back just to check that Ron and Hermione aren’t watching him incredulously, but he needn’t worry- they are absorbed in each other. From the way that Hermione moves her hands passionately across the papers and Ron stares at her with a dopey smile sitting on his lips, Harry knows that Hermione is trying to tell Ron about whatever it is she is working on. He also knows that Ron isn’t listening in the slightest. 

Turning back to Malfoy, he ploughs forward.

There is certainly a sense of _what the fuck are you doing, you complete idiot, turn back_ , but he chooses to storm ahead despite the little voice that demands to know what is going on. 

He arrives at Malfoy’s desk. 

Malfoy pauses for the briefest moment before continuing to write, and the falter was so small in nature that Harry could have easily missed it had he not been acutely aware of everything around him. There is a tension in the air that tells Harry that Malfoy has acknowledged his presence, and merely does not give a fuck. As if it is deliberately trying to agonise Harry, the nearest lantern flickers wildly, making Malfoy’s angular features appear even more prominent.

Nothing happens, except from a thudding noise which ceases to exist, and Harry realises that Malfoy has stopped shaking his legs. He almost wants to stomp on Malfoy’s foot to get it to do _something_ again. Anything to end this awkward fucking exchange, that could have been completely avoided had it not been for Harry’s idiocy. Shit.

Harry can feel his word vomit coming up only split seconds before it happens, and he is rendered helpless as he prepares for whatever bullshit is about to come out of his mouth. He blames the silence- it was killing him to not break it.

“Malfoy, why don’t you talk to me?” he says and immediately wants to cry and cower in a corner somewhere at how pathetic he sounds. Harry opens his mouth, just about to lead on from this absolute humiliation with an over-explanation about how he doesn’t even _want_ Malfoy to come near him, and that he only wants to know why Malfoy thinks he is too good to speak to the rest of them. 

Something stops him. He lets the question hang there instead, praying to whatever God is listening. And hang it does- for a bit too long, if you ask him. 

Scrap that- the question hangs for _way _too long and Harry wants to collapse from the stabbing pain and embarrassment this is causing him. Every second is a dagger to his chest and has never regretted saying something so badly in his life. What in the world compelled him to whine to Malfoy himself about the way he has been ignoring Harry? If someone out there can bury him alive on the spot, Harry would currently like to take up the offer, please and thank you.__

__The air feels thick. Malfoy doesn’t hesitate to carry on writing, seemingly sparing Harry no thoughts, but Harry squints at the words and finds that they don’t make any sense. Whilst he is looking, Harry peers at the words to see if this might be the parchment that Malfoy had been writing on last night, but it is in fact just his Ancient Runes homework. His white hair is combed to the side, but like Hermione’s did, a piece gradually becomes unstuck as the seconds pass, falling into his eyes. Keeping up with this performance of his- which is exactly what it is, Harry has realised- Malfoy appears determined to act like he hasn’t noticed. However, there is a tense energy radiating off of him. If there were any doubt over his frustration, it could be proven in the way that his shoulders are set like stone and his hand is clenched around his quill. Harry can practically feel how much the strand is aggravating him. He almost wants to just move it for him. Malfoy would cut his hand off if he tried._ _

__Finally, just as Harry is about to run away and never come back, Malfoy mutters something. It is quiet and he still doesn’t bother to raise his head, or stop writing, but the relief of it makes Harry weak at the knees. And then once it sinks in, quickly causes them to buckle once again._ _

__“Why do you want me to?”_ _

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Harry panics. He didn’t foresee this outcome in the dozens his mind hastily moved to create in the silence after he asked that stupid question- didn’t imagine that it could turn around on him somehow. Trust Malfoy to completely disregard his question and manage to yet again surprise Harry. Now, Harry stands here like a fish out of water, struggling to find an answer. He looks everywhere frantically, as if there might be a sign that says _Say this!_ poking out of the bookshelves. There isn’t. 

__“I don’t,” says Harry, thoroughly at a loss. He blinks several times, crossing his fingers that if he screws his eyes shut tight enough, he might magically appear in his bed, far far away from any unpredictable Malfoys._ _

__“Right, Potter.” And that is that._ _

__During all this, he never pauses in his writing once. Certainly, he doesn’t allude to having any plans to stop either._ _

__For all he desperately wished for this conversation to end a few seconds ago, Harry cannot bring himself to leave. This isn’t what he wanted to get out of this exchange. And perhaps he couldn’t give anyone a clear answer of what exactly he does desire here, but he knows in himself that it isn’t this. There is little Harry cares about in this world outside of his family these days, and it is this lack of interest- his outright absence of purpose- that makes him so aware of moments of genuine notability. Right here? Right now? This is one. For some fucking reason, this matters to him, and he is going to have to learn to deal with that. And so is Malfoy._ _

__“Are you going to answer my question, Malfoy?” he says, a bit gruffer than intended, and Harry is downright surprised at himself for not fainting at the weight of this conversion. Frankly, he is also rather proud that he managed to say that without his voice cracking mid-sentence._ _

__Malfoy seems shocked. His pale brow furrows, and he does continue writing for a second, almost as if he doesn’t have control over his own hand, is so used to the motion. Finally, he appears to come to a point where he cannot think of anything else to say. His slender hand wobbles slightly, the nib hovering across the paper, and Harry thinks he doesn’t want to concede to stopping._ _

__He does. Eventually._ _

__As Malfoy looks up at him, Harry suddenly feels very exposed, standing there in just his jumper. The other boy is wearing a full woollen robe, complete with an elaborate clasp in the middle and engraved with the Malfoy family crest. Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands and so he just crosses them over his chest, hoping that Malfoy can’t see the way he is clasping the fabric of his sleeves for support and stress relief simultaneously._ _

__“No,” he says simply, and Harry hates that he feels disappointed._ _

__Whilst debating whether to just turn away now and recognise a lost cause, Harry begins to get the sense that Malfoy is rolling around something in his mouth, trying to decide whether to say it. He attempts to root himself in his position, lest his exhausted and anxious body betray him in letting up; lest his mind, in all its panic, causes him to run away from this hellhole of a conversation._ _

__“Potter,” he says slowly in his low drawl. His gaze is overwhelming- Harry almost wishes he would resume writing. “Why are you covered in glitter?”_ _

For a moment, Harry has no clue what he is talking about. He has been so absorbed in his own humiliation that he altogether forgot that he has been made even more of a fool by the fact that he is sodden in gold glitter. Well, he could not have made a worse off-the-cuff decision if he had tried. As his favourite morning-mirror-pep-talk goes, _you just sabotage yourself at this point._

____

____“Doesn’t matter. Answer me,” says Harry uncomfortably and not as authoritatively as he would have liked. Instead, he phrases the last part like a question. Stupid. Harry shuffles about on his feet, leaning his weight to one side and then the other, for his body is beginning to feel more shattered by the minute. The glitter drops off his body onto the dark floorboards._ _ _ _

____

____“I don’t talk to anyone, you’re not special.” Malfoy interestingly sounds almost bitter. Harry is so astonished that he actually got a response, he barely takes this fact in._ _ _ _

____

____There is also something about the way that he hesitated at the end of the sentence that makes Harry believe he wanted to say more, probably flood Harry with insults and the like, but restrained himself. Harry wishes he hadn’t, and how screwed up is that? However, he will take what he can get. That comment contained much more than Harry thinks Malfoy meant for it to, and he can almost see the regret clouding Malfoy’s eyes. Vaguely, Harry registers that Malfoy is tapping his foot again. It must be a habit._ _ _ _

____

____Harry clambers for words that are almost on the tip of his tongue, but never quite get there. They seem to disappear just as they come to him, and he feels like he is grasping at water. He stumbles around, trying to find the right thing to say, and comes across nothing. This is as humiliating as it could get. Not only does Harry keep spurting out utter shit, but it takes him a million years to arrive at the point where he can say said shit. It is almost a guarantee that if Malfoy weren’t on some sort of mission to be as polite as possible, he would be calling Harry an imbecile, as he is assuredly thinking. Harry couldn’t argue with him if he did- he wouldn’t be wrong._ _ _ _

____

____After an excruciating while, he lands upon “I don’t get why, though.” A hint of a sneer settles upon Malfoy’s lips, as if he finds the statement vile. He probably does. All of a sudden, Harry finds that this isn’t enough. “I just don’t get it, Malfoy. What the fuck is wrong with you? You got beaten up a few days ago and you’re not gonna do anything about it? Have you gone insane?”_ _ _ _

____

____In all fairness, that is rather rich coming from Harry, who only an hour ago was deliberating his own sanity._ _ _ _

____

____At this, Malfoy looks peeved. Anticipation runs through Harry. “It isn’t your business what I do, Potter,” and he spits Harry’s name out like it is poison, “And quite frankly, I can’t comprehend why you care. I’m not bothering you, and I’d rather you refrain from talking to me in the future, if you may.”_ _ _ _

____

This strikes a blow in Harry’s stomach. It is absolutely not a positive message, since he is pretty much being told to fuck off in more formal terms, but he is almost certain that everything Malfoy is saying is being filtered through that facade of his. Harry can see that he is angry- his flexing fists, his deep set brow and stormy eyes, they all reveal what Malfoy is trying to suppress- and Harry despises how he pretends otherwise. _Why are you hiding it?_ is what he wants to scream in his face. He would, if he weren’t such a humongous coward. 

____

____Is Malfoy trying to be the bigger person? Trying to prevent an unnecessary fight? That doesn’t feel like the full story somehow, only a glimpse of a scene, and it doesn’t feel in character for the dickhead. Still, Harry tries to look at this from outside of his swirling and chaotic mind, and finds he doesn’t have the energy to pursue this dead end. If Malfoy wants him to fuck off, he will do so. If Harry has any talent, it is knowing when he isn’t wanted._ _ _ _

____

____“OK, Malfoy,” he says harshly, feigning indifference, and finds that this makes Malfoy frown even further, as if he expected Harry to push the point. “Whatever. Suit yourself and get beat up again. I just think you’re being bloody weird, that’s all.”_ _ _ _

____

____This is tiring. Horrible. Harry hates this situation and how lost he is in what he himself started. His body is threatening collapse. Any second now his calves will give way, and his hands physically could not be any more sweaty than they already are. His brain is going into overdrive and his mind feels like it is freezing over. He can’t wait for it to be over. But it is also addictive._ _ _ _

____

“Well, everyone is entitled to their own _wrong_ opinion, even if they are a glittery Scarhead,” Malfoy says with a sniff, and for a moment Harry feels like the old haughty, holier-than-thou Malfoy came back. Ever so minutely, Malfoy smirks, as if he is thinking the exact same thing. It is glorious, like a real victory. The moment is strangely enjoyable. 

____

____Then he turns his blonde head back to his writing and the effect is shattered. The old school-yard bully would have taunted him to the end of earth and then beyond, had Harry come at him so directly like this. Harry had once thought that he wouldn’t escape his rival’s droning insults even if the world ended._ _ _ _

____

It almost offends Harry that Malfoy has had the audacity to change. How dare he? All Harry wanted after coming out on the triumphant side of history, yet feeling more like a loser than ever, was a sense of normalcy. His mind went and deserted him in collapsing in on itself, becoming its own worst enemy. The same with his traitor of a body, losing any shape it once had, letting itself get weaker by the day. So he looked to others- but how the fuck can he expect Ron and Hermione to come out unchanged, after all they did for him? He couldn’t. Hogwarts was never going to be his ‘normal’ again, but he had crossed his fingers, toes, and anything else cross-able, that there might be some solace in lessons. No, they feel as stilted and useless as ever. Malfoy was his last hope and he just had to go and be all _different_. Fuck it all. 

____

____“Uh, OK,” Harry says awkwardly, any drop of confidence he had unfortunately had in himself now wrung out of him. Malfoy doesn’t say any more and Harry knows that is all he will get for today, maybe ever. It is quite possible he will just have to accept the fact that Malfoy is unsolvable. He refuses to do this again. It was too much too quickly, and Malfoy’s secret skill seems to be managing to rile Harry up without even doing anything._ _ _ _

____

For his own sake, he should also drop this whole parchment thing. It is probably just a shopping list or notes for his new novel _10 ways to be a dickhead_. His attempts to make himself less curious are hollow, and he knows it. 

____

____He shuffles away, and his whole body prickles with embarrassment as he walks back down the corridor. More so than before, the arching wood beams and towering bookcases feel like they could engulf him. Finding Ron and Hermione, he slides back into the group and tries his best to conceal his complete lack of emotional control by nodding profusely at everything Hermione says._ _ _ _

____

____Later, Harry gets back to the dorm room with a clinging Hermione demanding a study session after class the next day. He agrees reluctantly and tries to forget that this means tomorrow he has to return to lessons. It is fine. He is fine. And Malfoy is fine, too._ _ _ _

____

_Wait- who said anything about Malfoy?_ Oh. That’s right. Harry’s treasonous subconscious. 

____

____As the door opens to his dorm room, Harry almost feels like confessing true love down on one knee at the sight of his bed. It could just be his exhausted eyes, but she has a glow around her that has never made linen look so appealing. Jumping in, the sheets are like medicine to him, soothing the aches and pains twisting inside him. He is probably getting glitter everywhere but at this point, he is too far gone inside his own exhaustion to care._ _ _ _

____

____He is one thought away from sleep when Justin comes out of the bathroom and catches sight of Harry’s limp and fatigued body in the magnitude of duvet._ _ _ _

____

____“Hey, Harry!”_ _ _ _

____

____Practically comatose, Justin’s voice sounds so distant, so unimportant, and Harry is already soaring too high in the comfort of sleep to be bothered. It must be another Harry, and he swoops higher, his body drifting away._ _ _ _

____

____“Harry!”_ _ _ _

____

____The clouds support all his heavy limbs in their lethargy and he goes higher and higher until he is like Icarus to the Sun._ _ _ _

____

____“Okay, I can see when I’m not wanted.” Higher he goes. “I just wanted to tell you something I just overheard. Malfoy is requesting to move rooms.”_ _ _ _

____

____And just like that, Harry falls._ _ _ _

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo.... hope that was good? left everyone on a bit of a cliffhanger there! don't worry i wont take over a month to update this time, i promise. my mental health has been really bad recently and i have been really struggling to find motivation to do things like get dressed let alone write whole chapters of books. luckily, harry is my comfort character and i find a lot of joy in being able to express how i feel through him. its taken me a while to get here so i hope its okay? currently its 3am in the uk and ive written a lot of this very tired so i will go back and edit in this morning. i hope everyone is okay in these scary times (im still in shock... my exams have all been cancelled) and if anyone ever needs to chat, lemme know and we can exchange social medias etc x PLEASE LEAVE KUDOS AND COMMENTS BECAUSE I NEED THE MOTIVATION TO BE HONEST!!!!!! i love this story so much but #depression sometimes wins so yeah please be nice cos this takes a lot of my energy otherwise i will get sad lol anyway ok BYE love you all xoxooxo thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LONG BOY!! almost 10k i think?? harry is extra depressed plus some spicy arguments. all fun things, clearly x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!! pretty proud of myself for how long this is considering i wrote it in only a few days. i've read over this a million times and i now hate it and really can't tell if it actual utter shit like i think it is, or if im just sleep deprived. maybe a mix of both. anyway hope u enjoy!

After Justin leaves, Harry keeps his eyes firmly shut in case the other boy is still lurking around. He doesn’t want to talk about what Justin just told him. If he does, he imagines that he would probably have to reveal that the knowledge that Malfoy is demanding to switch dorms indeed disturbs him. Consequently, Justin would require an explanation. Harry doesn’t have one, other than it pisses him off that Malfoy doesn’t want him around at all, not even to antagonise- and that is a rather shit and illogical excuse considering they are well known rivals. 

“But isn’t that a good thing?” he can practically hear Justin say. He doesn’t know what to tell imaginary Justin. 

It might be ten minutes or twenty- possibly even an hour, time is fluid past a certain point in the night- when he hears the telling rustling of Justin climbing into bed. With his senses so cut off like this, he finds that he listens to every minute detail. Even if he didn’t know that Justin was the only one who would be getting into the bed beside him, he would be able to tell from the specific noise of his movements. Unlike Anthony, whose steps are heavy and indicate his girth, Justin moves like he is worried he will hurt the ground with the weight of his feet. Gentle and slow in pace. And, likewise, vastly different to Malfoy who, despite his newfound placidity, still travels swiftly and with certainty everywhere he goes. Malfoy doesn’t walk so much as _glide_ , Harry realises.

Anthony stumbles in a bit later, and his hefty plods are a bit staggered. He could be drunk. Hermione would be appalled, considering that it is a Sunday night, but eighth year apparently does not seem to be bothered by such mundane structures any more. Almost every night, he hears Seamus and Dean go out to Hogsmeade as they stir up great noise in the common room; Merlin knows who else joins them. They tumble back into the room at ungodly hours, usually waking Harry from whatever pitiful excuse for sleep he is in. A lot of clinking of bottles, stifled giggles and a singing Seamus. Probably some snogging in between if it is just the two of them. Harry really is becoming less cool by the day. Premature ageing here we come, he thinks woefully. 

Malfoy never comes into the room. Harry detests that he wants to know why. Granted, the boy is a hard worker- he has to be in order to have almost topped Hermione throughout their school years- but the chances of him still scribbling away in the library with that high-arching quill of his are pretty low. Unless Madam Pince has taken him, and he debates the idea fearfully. He wouldn’t wish such a chilling end on anyone, even Malfoy. 

Harry tries to sleep, he does, he really, _really_ does. With his eyes so tightly screwed shut they begin to hurt, and his duvet pulled up securely around his torso, he prays slumber will come. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. 

This irritates him to no extent; he wants to tear his hair out in irritation. If he has to think for one second more, he will...actually, he isn’t sure what he will do. Cry, perhaps? Now more than ever, he just wants to shut off for a while. His brain is pinching with how many thoughts and anxieties are running through his mind like it is a fucking marathon. As they go, they trample his chance of sleep into the ground with painful kicks to his head. Probably looking like a right idiot, he flicks his temple in the hope that it might trigger some sort of _off_ button. 

Finding that it doesn’t work, and rather just gives him a minor headache, he decides to get up. He realistically isn’t going to be sleeping tonight, as much as he craves the respite. Thank you, Justin, for that. Harry cringes and feels like sobbing when he remembers just how close he had been to nodding off. It seems Malfoy manages to plague him even in unconsciousness.

As he stands, he rediscovers all the glitter on his body as it falls and flitters to the ground in shimmering gold blurs. Without his glasses on, and in the path of the moonlight, they are stars falling to the earth. He grabs his glasses and definition returns. No longer blessed by ill-sightedness, the glitter just looks like glitter once again. Sometimes he prefers life without all its sharp edges, and will choose to go about his day half-blind. It is certainly softer, and often more beautiful in its simplicity. He finds that if he doesn’t strain too hard, the temporary letup of the harsh lines and mean details of reality is a welcome break. And if he fell down the stairs a few times too many in the process, or accidentally walked into Kreacher as he skulked on the landing, well, every system has its flaws.

Lifting his hand, Harry examines the way the sparkles look on his dark skin. In some ways, it is a sweet reminder of the love and joy of the couple that it came from. In many others, it just serves to provoke the memory of the way that Malfoy had briefly scanned him upon looking up from his desk, clearly judging Harry as dirty and uncivilised. The image of it certainly makes him feel so. 

It is the echo of Malfoy’s voice in his head, _“Potter, why are you covered in glitter?”_ that urges him to take a shower. His body screams to stay in bed but those words drown out the noise with its own demands.

He treks across their dorm to the bathroom. The light inside flickers and again, he is thrown back to his conversation with Malfoy, whose pale face was illuminated by the blinking lamps of the library. Just as vivid as it were at the time, Harry finds the reminder of his humiliation and failure too much. _Fucking embarrassing_. As his clothes drop to the tiles, he redirects his gaze away from his body. It hurts so much he almost expects there to be bruises all up and down his skin. Just needing to assure himself that it isn’t, Harry takes a reluctant peek through his eyelids. There is nothing, as suspected, but he finds plenty of other issues with himself to compensate. 

When he reaches for the knob to turn on the shower, it is cool to the touch and eases some of the taut tension in his hands. The water slides down his back euphorically, and Harry wonders how the majority of wizards can go weeks without this. Cleaning charms could never knead out the knots in his back like the kisses from the water droplets do. He revels in the stream pouring down on him, letting the glitter trickle into the drain and his exhausted limbs be alleviated. It is the simple things. 

Once the water has worked its magic the best it can, leaving behind only the familiar residual aching that he knows so well, Harry regretfully turns it off and grabs his clothes from the floor. Proving just how blissfully oblivious a good shower can render him, they are damp from where he hasn’t been careful and has splashed them. They are still covered in glitter and the laundry won’t be collected by the house elves for at least a couple of days, so he casts a quick cleaning charm. It isn’t quite the same, and as he puts them on, he curses the stiff and itchy feeling of the fabric that comes from washing with magic.

He feels a bit lost now, unsure whether to try and go back to sleep or not. Of course, it would be to no avail, but it is that effort that counts, right? He has lessons in the morning. With his Defence class at eight-thirty, it would probably be a smart idea to at least attempt a nap. But as Harry walks back into the room and spies Malfoy’s empty bed, sheets eerily untouched and gleaming in the moonlight, he recognises a lost cause immediately. Frankly, he cannot be bothered with the struggle of it. 

Following his instincts, he wiggles his bony feet into a pair of socks and shoes, chucks on his robes and heads out of the dorm room, sick of its stagnant air. He thinks suddenly that it is a real testament to his dysfunctionality that he flits between such extremes. One day, he cannot leave the bed. The next, he cannot get into it. All he can do is cross his fingers and hope that at some point in the future, the _near_ future, he will be able to find a balanced middle ground. 

In his mind’s eye, he envisages a peaceful scene, where he and Ron and Hermione cook dinner together after a draining day at work. Perhaps he will have a partner of his own, who holds his hand as he stirs the pot, and who teases him when the meal ultimately goes tits up. He no longer fears losing himself, and therefore doesn’t fear losing them either. It is a tender image- and he wants it so fucking _badly_ \- but such a life feels overwhelmingly out of his reach. A blurry figment of a dream that isn’t his to have. Right now, as he stands alone in the bitter cold of the corridor, just him and the silvery light of the night sky, it seems infinite universes away. When he lets a teardrop fall, he holds himself bare to the moon and challenges her to judge him as pathetic. He likes to imagine that the way the light brightens for a second is her smiling down at him.

He roams for hours, he thinks, just going nowhere. Once he starts, he finds he cannot stop. It is at times like this that he realises how expansive Hogwarts actually is. For most of his time at school, it appeared to him as just the Gryffindor Tower, the Quidditch Pitch and the Great Hall. Lessons are lessons, of course, but these three things defined the castle in his mind. Now he acknowledges just how wrong he was. With the halls void of life and the corridors silent, bar the tread of his feet, Hogwarts seems almost limitless. Indeed, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was; if the castle is recognising his need to keep moving, and is just pulling random rooms and passageways out of thin air. The longer he walks, the more weight drops off of his body. Obviously, he is tired- fucking knackered, in fact- but this only serves to power him on, determined to leave the stress of the dorm room behind him.

At some point in the night, he passes a clock. It tells him that it is three-forty in the morning, and he accepts grudgingly that tomorrow is going to be a killer. He watches it tick for a moment, remembering his clock back at Grimmauld Place, the one destined to chime up only at his most vulnerable and fragile. Weirdly, he misses it. At least at Grimmauld, everything felt ordinary; there was nothing that could truly spook him but the power of his subconscious, and that isn’t the house's fault. At Hogwarts, he feels like everywhere he goes, there is a new opportunity for fear and anxiety. A trigger around every corner. For being somewhere he has long since judged as his home, Harry is unsettled at just how little comfort there is here for him. It is just one vast prison of people and places who terrorise him with haunting visions.

_Malfoy, I’m looking at you _, he thinks. The white-haired boy in his mind flips him off and that is how he knows definitively that it is not real. The real Malfoy would never grant as much emotion as a middle finger.__

__Harry hasn’t gone outside yet. Firstly, because he underestimated just how nippy the night is, and in only his flimsy summer robes, he is numbingly cold. Looking back, maybe this is why he feels lighter. Secondly, because with every step he takes towards the night air, he gets closer to the Forbidden Forest. So far this year he has managed to avoid it, and he plans to keep it that way. Even this brief thought of it has him reliving what it felt like to plummet to the ground, preparing to meet his death whilst the wretched green of the Avada Kedavra glared before his eyes. The floor was earthy and soft, covered in pine needles which pricked him like blades as he landed. Narcissa Malfoy’s hands were shaking when she declared him dead. Still fresh in his mind, he can practically feel her ghostly touch on his arm as she changed the course of history without even knowing it. She had whispered “Draco” and tenderly squeezed him. The pine smell of the forest had been sickly strong._ _

__Sometimes Harry forgets it has only been four months. Everything is so different now._ _

__Even with the memories rounding in his head, try as he might, he cannot dull down his craving to go outdoors, and so he decides to get some air and just keep away from the Forest. Despite the grandness of the castle, he still somehow feels trapped. A large cage is still a cage._ _

__The night is static; the air, the wind - everything- appears frozen in time. Harry heads across the courtyard and when he passes over the spot where Voldemort had fallen, he tries his hardest to ignore it. He ambles down towards the lake, and when he accidentally catches a glance of the dark mass of trees to his right, he whips around so fast in the other direction that he is hit by a slight headache. They sing a Siren’s song to him in wicked voices, but he just quickens his pace and keeps his eyes lowered on the rocky ground beneath him._ _

__It seems like he has walked to the end of the earth before anything happens._ _

__He is by the far side of the lake when a flash of silver catches his attention; it washes over the piece of decomposing wood he had been observing. He feels nervous to raise his head and discover the cause, frightened by all the possibilities and on edge from something disturbing the warped sense of peace he had been beginning to form. Mostly he is strung high with anxiety- the bluish hue of the colour is excruciatingly familiar._ _

__After a long while, there are no more excuses. He has examined every crack in the soil, every stone and every strand of grass. All alight with a silver glow. Try as he might, he can cast aside the need to look up no longer._ _

__Malfoy is standing in the middle of a clearing, wand poised and his back to Harry._ _

Harry sighs, resigned. He would have assumed that the bastard would have gone to bed by now, even in spite of the fact that he wasn’t there when he left. They must be as insane as each other, to both be out at four in the morning. He feels a bit cheated, and more than a little pissed off. This was supposed to be _his_ brooding nocturnal stroll. No one had promised him that it would be free of other people, and yet he had naively presumed it would be. Trust Malfoy to ruin that for him. He frowns and almost groans aloud before he remembers the other boy’s presence. This bloody routine that seems to be forming, the one where Harry stumbles across Malfoy- it is really screwing with his head. At this point, he isn’t sure it is even accidental anymore. 

__Why do they always end up at the same place? What cruel and twisted god is playing this game with him? Could they have not just let Harry bust his anxiety in solitude? And of course it is Malfoy. After all, it couldn’t have just been, say, Terry Boot, could it? No, that wouldn’t do. Harry may as well march into the Forest whilst he is at it, for this night is turning out to be truly shit._ _

__Harry is dragged from his thoughts by Malfoy announcing a spell. He thinks that it is the same one as previously, brimming with Latin words that Harry tunes out. Malfoy finishes with a dramatic flare of the wrist- Harry rolls his eyes at the farce- and a ginormous ball of light explodes from the tip of his wand. Harry remembers how ecstatic Malfoy had looked when he managed to get it right the first time, and he is hit by a wave of relief that his pointy face isn’t confronting him now. When compared to last time, Harry is astonished at the power in the casting. Before, the fragments of silver fluttered about the common room like blossom petals. It was already admittedly beautiful, but now? Now the whole surrounding area is strewn with a light so bright it feels like dawn has come early. Malfoy has made clear improvement._ _

__Why has he had to progress, though? Having just seen this once, the logical side of his brain- the part not damaged by his unruly emotions- could have given Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, could have pretended he was just messing about. However, a memory claws through of Malfoy looking distraught when he failed, and Harry thinks, unsettled, that it didn’t look like the twat was having much fun. The second time round, it is blatantly obvious that he is deliberately practising for something. But just what for? Whatever the answer, Harry bets it lies within those pieces of paper that Malfoy seems to be perpetually carrying around._ _

__He laughs internally as he suddenly sees the reality of the situation. For Merlin’s sake, Harry came here to get away from these questions, and look where he has ended up- with more than he had before. It doesn’t help that he is beginning to feel like the world’s biggest stalker._ _

__Then, something horrible happens before Harry can comprehend it, and he is rendered a bystander to his own life as he watches it play out._ _

__Malfoy turns around and, as predicted, is painted with delight. Harry’s stomach drops in unison. Seeing the unrestrained, open expression on his pale face leaves Harry unnerved, for it is just so vastly different to the Malfoy he knows, and every version of him too. The schoolyard bully, the trembling boy of the war, and especially the most recent- a shell of the man he once was. Harry has no clue which one is the real Malfoy, and considers uncomfortably that maybe none of them are. Perhaps this boy in front of him, the one who is currently smiling so hard his eyes have disappeared, the one who is stomping his feet in excitement, is the real one. And Harry doesn’t know how to cope with this possibility._ _

__But this all pales in comparison to the sudden awareness that he is about to be spotted._ _

__He makes no move to back away, knowing that it would prove pointless and Malfoy would see him anyway once it becomes apparent that he isn’t just a particularly large bush. There is nowhere to hide. It seems his wish has been granted: he is no longer caged in. It is only now that he needs them, that he realises some boundaries, some restrictions, are necessary. The complete freedom of the outdoors has made him too reckless; he is laid out on a platter for everyone to see, and it is harrowing._ _

__Or rather, just laid out for Malfoy._ _

For several tedious beats, Harry has to just stand there in anticipation as Malfoy basks in his joy. It must only be a few seconds but it creeps by painfully slowly. He is dressed in a thick winter cloak that looks incredibly warm and expensive, very on brand for a boy so spoiled, and Harry has to stop himself from using _Accio_ to steal it for himself. 

__He begins counting the seconds in his head, for lack of thoughts. His mind has drawn up blank. _One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten , Eleven, Twel-__ _

__He doesn’t finish twelve, because Malfoy meets his gaze._ _

__The pin drops._ _

__You would think that with all the time he was waiting for this exact instance, Harry would be prepared. He certainly assumed so. But, no, nothing could have qualified him to be ready for the crushing feeling of having Malfoy stare him directly in the eye, his joyous expression withered within a second. What it is replaced by, he cannot discern, but it is assuredly nothing positive. At best, Malfoy is just plain shocked, and at worst, he is currently planning how to dispose of Harry’s body in the Black Lake. Never has Harry seen someone’s smile fall so fast. One second, Malfoy seems to be in the midst of clouds, content and liberated. Harry witnesses the very moment he drops right out of the sky._ _

__They both just stand there, not doing anything much, just examining each other. Maybe it is something about it being almost sunrise, maybe his sanity has gone out the window with the lateness of the hour, but Malfoy doesn’t bother hiding his shock like Harry would have expected him to._ _

__“What are you doing here?” says Malfoy, quieter than Harry has ever heard him. His expression mirrors what Harry imagines he looks like himself, all wide eyes and gaping mouth. The question is loud in the silence of the night._ _

__“Just taking a walk,” answers Harry cautiously, unsure of how he should act here. He doesn’t believe Malfoy was being accusatory, rather he sounded genuinely curious, but it is in their nature to fight._ _

“At three AM?” Malfoy says and raises his thin eyebrow fractionally as if he considers Harry an utter imbecile. Even so, it is way too polite. Where is the _“My my, Potter, you really are as insane as they say, aren’t you?_ with a curling smirk and a cruel laugh. He misses it, even as childish and spiteful as it was. _Watch out, Potter's about!_ He can hear it now. 

“Four AM,” retorts Harry smartly, and Malfoy’s top lip twitches and quivers. Harry could be wrong here, but it looks like he is fighting amusement. It is a rather odd gesture on someone who still has the air of a spooked lamb. He wants to ask whether Malfoy is actually changing rooms, but practises restraint. _It is none of your business_ , he tells himself. 

__Slowly yet steadily, as if he is hoping Harry won’t notice, Malfoy places his wand in his pocket. Harry notices. He is likely praying that Harry will forget everything he has seen. Bad news for Malfoy- he is not in the habit of being able to ignore the twat. Considering how catastrophically this seems to work in his favour, he concludes it is probably one of his most destructive flaws. Even a short exchange with Malfoy is proving a fate worse than death, with the way that his heart is nearly thumping out of his chest and his limbs are shaking profusely. Death is quick; this is agony. And he would know- death is an old friend of his._ _

__So why is he so reluctant to leave?_ _

__“At four AM, then,” Malfoy accepts Harry’s comment without contention, which frustrates Harry. He had thought that might have broken through to the argumentative side that he knows Malfoy has. As he has this thought, he can practically see his fourth year self examining present-day Harry in horror.__

____

____

__Malfoy looks Harry up and down with narrowed eyes, “Why?” Immediately, the other boy scrunches his face as if he regrets asking the question._ _

__“I don’t know,” says Harry, trying to appear relaxed and not like his insides are twisting and pulling like the waves on a stormy sea, “Fresh air,”_ _

__“Invigorating,” says Malfoy simply, and it has never been more obvious that he is judging Harry as a moron. Seriously- Harry has never met a person able to convey scathing critique through eye contact alone quite like Malfoy. Everything about this is disconcerting to say the least. He feels like he should insult the other boy, just to settle the natural order, but there is no call for it, and he isn’t about to be the bully here. That was always Malfoy’s job- to commence the fight- and secretly, Harry was sometimes glad for it. Still, ever-infuriating, Malfoy is being perfectly pleasant. No bickering necessary, he thinks with distaste._ _

__This subconscious need for more or less than civility between them, a desire for something that will spark life inside Harry, is probably what causes his self-sabotage._ _

“Anyway, Malfoy, I could say the same to you. I’m not the only one in this conversation, you’re here too,” Harry says, and maybe it is too much for them to hold an actual conversation, maybe he needed to keep it flat. “What are _you_ doing?” He doesn’t know how it happens- it is a complete accident- but the air turns sour within seconds. He supposes it is their human instinct, to concede to their animosity, and yet he can’t help but feel like he has massively fucking let himself down. 

__The silvery light from Malfoy’s wand, which had been illuminating the clearing and giving the impression that everything was dripping in snow, disappears in an instant. Once it is gone, he feels the weight of the night creep down on him. They are plunged into the reality of darkness. He hadn’t even realised that Malfoy had still been upholding his magic. It had felt reasonable, natural, that the world was blazing silver._ _

__Malfoy sneers, his face turning defensive. His paleness makes him decipherable in the dark, but only just so, and the shadows harden his expression. When he is irked like this, it transforms his features so drastically, Harry feels like he has entered a separate conversation. His nostrils flare unattractively and his eyes run cold. “Potter, I have tried to be civil about this, but what I do doesn’t concern you,” his lips downturn, “I’m not sure how many times I am going to have to say it before-”_ _

_“Before it gets through your thick skull?” go on Malfoy, say it._

__He doesn’t say it. Clenching his fists, Malfoy breathes in and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, they are blank, and they fix on something behind Harry, missing his gaze. Harry feels sick to be back in this position, with Malfoy building his own walls as Harry watches, helpless. The only time Malfoy will get his hands dirty is when he is forging his own chains. When will they break this cycle? It occurs to him maybe never._ _

“Just... just-” _Piss off? Fuck off? Get out of my life and never come back?_ “Stop,” says Malfoy with finality. His jaw is set like stone and Harry doesn’t know how to reverse this major fuck up of his. 

__He feels like apologising, but the ridiculousness of that would be enough to make anyone laugh in his face. Apologise for what? If he really thinks about it, it could probably start with all the way back to that first train journey, where Harry had snubbed Malfoy’s hand. A foolish idea occurs to him now- it is a picture of them, friends, in a world where Harry had taken up his offer of amity. Could it have happened?_ _

__He assesses the Malfoy in front of him, purposefully avoiding Harry’s eyes, damaged in all ways except physically now that his bruises have healed, and finds he hasn’t the foggiest._ _

__“OK,” says Harry, defeated. His lack of sleep is beginning to catch up with him, and his eyes turn heavy as all adrenaline deserts him. He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably, wondering how he has managed to wind himself up in this situation again. Malfoy redirects his stare back to him briefly, looking vaguely confused to see Harry yield. In all fairness to Malfoy, the Harry of the past wouldn’t have given up so rapidly. He would have pressed until he found out what was happening, no doubt about it._ _

Today, Harry stands with nothing _but_ doubt. Oh, and overwhelming curiosity, a mind which doesn’t understand itself and crippling exhaustion, of course. He isn’t sure which part will win. Because this whole _thing_ with Malfoy- it is draining him, and yet somehow, as proof of a living oxymoron, it makes him feel so very alive. 

__Harry now moves to do something that shocks himself- he leaves first._ _

__Strolling away, he feels Malfoy’s eyes on him, and that is how he knows the other boy is surprised by his sudden exit too. It is revitalising to get one up on Malfoy, to show him how it feels to be the one left feeling like a fool, having your last word taken away from you. Harry doesn’t need to talk about how idiotic he has been as well- that isn’t the point._ _

__As he heads up the hill towards the castle, towards his cage, he tries to keep himself together. He has to be brave, keep his head high and all that- it should be easy, he is a Gryffindor after all. Snorting, he recalls just how cowardly he has been recently and, well... brave at least until he is out of Malfoy’s line of sight, then. His hands are shaking, and he puts them in his pockets so as to pretend they are not._ _

__Turning the corner, his body finally holds him accountable for the torture he has put it through and gives way. He falls on his hands and knees, and crawls into a spot hidden from any prying eyes. Here, lying in the thorns of a bush, not understanding what has just happened, is where he is forced to stay._ _

__When the bell for the first lesson rings a few hours later, he prepares himself for whatever shit is coming next._ _

__\------------_ _

The next few days are _bad_. When he says that, he doesn’t mean that he got a low score on a test, or felt melancholy for an evening or two. No, not anything as superficial as that. They are so painful to live through that Harry almost reaches his breaking point. 

__He cries so frequently he feels like he is drowning in it, hides in so many closets to do so that he loses count. His skin becomes flaky and sore with the amount of drying charms he has to use when he hears Ron and Hermione searching for him. When he isn’t crying, he has such an absence of emotion that he begins to truly believe he doesn’t exist on this earth. No human would feel so numb, would they? The question gnaws at him as he sinks into his bed, feeling nothing except a hollow emptiness._ _

__And what really sucks, is that he can’t attribute this wholly to Malfoy. Having an incredibly tense and perplexing conversation with Malfoy at four in the morning whilst his subconscious demands to know what the boy is up to? Yeah, that was horrible, and it certainly made him feel even more distressed than he is already. Malfoy is always on his mind, he has to admit. This is something different, though. This is him causing his own downfall._ _

__Harry doesn’t mean to be repetitive, he knows the tales of his broken mind are probably getting old, but the fact is, this is his reality. As much as he would like to pretend otherwise, he can’t._ _

He looks to others and the realities they all live. Hermione suffers with nightmares about Malfoy Manor, he knows, and the memory of Bellatrix. Justin has no clue how to handle his prejudiced family. Ron thinks about Fred almost all the time, Harry sees it when his eyes go distant and zoom in on nothing. They all struggle, but the common denominator between them all is that all their problems lie with people, with the impact of others on their lives. Between their flashbacks, between their moments of sadness, they function- can live normally, even. Harry’s issue is with himself, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t that sound self-centered. 

__After the battle, something burst in him. If all your energy was stored in a balloon inside of you, then his has popped._ _

__So he spends a while in a rut, it happens. At Grimmauld Place, this would be his average week, with brief, intermittent bursts of productivity. It is about time it kicked in at Hogwarts.__

____

____

__When he trudges into that eight-thirty class after having collapsed in the shrubbery at four AM, he thinks he scares Justin. He is flecked with dirt, and he is sure his the strength of his eye-bags must make him look ill. His friend asks him a harmless question, just wondering where he has been all night, and offers a small comment about how Malfoy has been missing too. It is insignificant, really, but the implication that Justin knows that they had been together freaks him out. Blabbering incoherent words which somehow are comprehensible to Justin, he feels wrecked inside. Why does it matter? It isn’t like they did anything other than stare at each other a weird amount and have stilted small talk. He still feels guilty._ _

Maybe it is that Malfoy has practically told him to fuck off, in his weird, half-formal, half-aggravated tone, at least three times, and he still hasn’t listened. He probably should, but he doesn’t know how- it isn’t like he _wants_ to feel intrigued. 

__On his desk, he finds a knot in the wood that resonates with him, Merlin knows why, and for the rest of the lesson, he doesn’t remove his eyes from it. The bell must ring because everyone stands up, and even then he doesn’t budge. Justin shakes him and takes him to his next lesson. It feels like babysitting and Harry hates it, but his heart is still warmed by the gesture._ _

__Malfoy still hasn’t formally left the dorm room, nor said anything about it to any of them. He may as well have, for how little Harry sees him. He seems to be purposefully avoiding Harry now, going out of his way to do the opposite of whatever he does. When he does make an appearance, the other boy just ignores him. You would presume that seeing Malfoy less would help Harry forget about him. Alas, it only seems to make his curiosity grow, and the longer he goes without seeing that white shock of hair, the more agitated he becomes in addition to everything else he is feeling. He assumes that the dorm change is probably happening, and wishes that Malfoy would just rip the plaster off quickly and get it over and done with. Then maybe Harry can move on with his life. A likely scenario indeed._ _

__When Tuesday comes around, Ron and Hermione probe him until he goes for a walk with them, but halfway through he has to make a hasty exit when he feels tears coming on. There is no logic to it, and that is what is so frustrating. He couldn’t explain the reason for his crying even if he wanted to._ _

__They find him ten minutes later by the greenhouses, with his tears spelled away, and ask him where he went. He fashions a poor excuse, spinning some bullshit about remembering something Professor Sprout had asked him to help her with earlier that day. Both of them look worried and unbelieving of his story, so he smiles weakly in the hope that it will give them some semblance of comfort. It isn’t enough. Hermione smuggles him an extra large slice of treacle pie that night from the Kitchen, and Harry wants to cry again knowing how criminal she must feel doing so. He doesn’t deserve his friends- at all- and he eats it by the fire in the common room, tasting nothing but the abundance of love he has for her._ _

__Wanting to make it up to her, and having no clue how, Harry just plonks his arse in the nearest chair and bashes out his homework in a frantic frenzy. As he does it, he thinks that this is the world's worst gift. Still, she smiles gleefully when she realises that she doesn’t have to nag him to get on with it, so at least that is something. Although, it brings about a whole downfall of shame upon him- she shouldn’t have to worry about doing that anyway- and he wants to do something proper for her. He pledges that he will get her a gift this weekend at Hogsmeade, even if he manages to fall into a coma between now and Saturday. It is called perseverance, thank you very much. Something for Ron, too. Maybe some of the new Chudley Cannons merchandise._ _

__On Wednesday, Justin confirms that Malfoy is requesting to switch dormitories. He informs Harry in the evening, as they both are preparing to settle down for the night. Harry almost doesn’t bother, finding nothing in him that cares, but Justin’s encouraging smile is what lifts him out of his half-slumber. Whilst he scrubs his gums down, he tries to recall everything that invigorates him about brushing his teeth. Laugh if you must, but he does so in the hopes that he will be able to do it without prodding tomorrow morning._ _

_It is easy- a menial task that he can cope with without too much effort. It also has the power to make him feel like he is on top of the world, in those moments where he doesn’t manage to do anything else._ Yeah, he feels confident that tomorrow will be the day. 

__That self-assurance fades when Justin reports Harry of what he has overheard. “Earlier, Zabini told Nott that Malfoy has requested twice to move,” He gurgles the water and spits it out in the sink. Harry shudders. “He must really hate us. Apparently, Mcgonagall is proper against it, but if he asks her again, she is obliged to do it.”_ _

__Harry deduces, with a flicker of sadness, that Justin is incorrect in his statement. Malfoy doesn’t hate them all- only Harry._ _

He is so deeply stuck in a mine of confusion that he is no longer even sure whether he would rather Malfoy stay or go. Undeniably, Harry does seem to have a need to crack Malfoy’s aloof demeanor, for it reminds him of himself in a way- that numbness. It unsettles him out to see the same sentiment reflected in bloody Malfoy, of all people. He needs it gone- a spark of _something _back in the git. but he wonders if he is fighting in a lost battle. Maybe he should finally try and let it go. For real this time.__

____

Although, even as he thinks that, he distinguishes a feeling in his gut that says it isn't what he wants, or can do. Vastly losing every bit of the faint grip he has left on himself, Harry cannot fathom up a single logistical reason for Malfoy to not move. It would make sense. In theory, his transfer would be the best thing for them all. But his gut says _fuck that_. It defies reason, however he speaks the language of his instincts well, and this is what they tell him. If only his opinion was valued and respected by the twat. Yes- he needs Malfoy to stay. If anything, just so that he has a purpose, even if it is solely figuring out _what the fuck Draco Malfoy is up to this time_. 

____

____\----------_ _ _ _

____

____It is Thursday. Otherwise known as four days since his bizarre rendezvous with Malfoy in the middle of the night- this is how he judges the days now._ _ _ _

____

____This morning, he skipped class. It was utterly unrelated to the lesson itself, and rather had everything to do with the social interactions and loaded additions that come with a school day. It is hard to put into words. Mcgonagall is already disappointed in him; this will just contribute further fuel to the fire. He hates that he is living up to her expectations, especially when he has a desire to prove her wrong. It is just his luck that this fire is snuffed out by the tornado raging on inside of him.____

_______ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___Hermione has sent him a heart using their DA Galleons, and he is cradling it in bed now. Ever since she discovered emoticons in Muggle London, she has been putting the knowledge to use as often as a witch without a mobile phone can. The smiley face and the heart are her favourites. Unfortunately, because of its petite size, it keeps slipping through the gaps in his fingers. They are shaking a little, for no particular reason. He thinks maybe Malfoy got the right idea, having a plush dragon. If he locates it now, he is most definitely taking it for a trial cuddle. Malfoy will never fucking know, since he has disappeared off the face of the earth._ _ _

____

____It is ironic that as Harry thinks this, the boy in question strides into the room. He must not notice Harry buried in his bed, likely not expecting to find him here in the middle of a school day, because he slings his satchel onto his bed nonchalantly and shucks off his robe. The casualness of it makes Harry choke on his breath; his chest goes tight. It strikes him as bizarre that Malfoy is bunking off too, what with how dedicated he has always been to lessons, in that insufferable, slimy way of his. Yet another way that Malfoy has changed._ _ _ _

____

Malfoy’s tall figure heads into the bathroom and Harry hears the shower turn on. The idea that Malfoy is in such close proximity to him, _naked_ , is so very disturbing that Harry reckons it would be a wise idea to check himself into a hospital straight away in order to get the image professionally Obliviated. He wouldn’t trust Ron with a task so important. 

____

A faint noise comes from the direction of the bathroom, indistinctly resembling a bird squawk. Taking a peek through a gap in his duvet, his eyes dart around the room. There is nothing alive but the dust mites that grab the light of the sun. The numbness that is long settled in his bones begs him to remain in bed, _pleads_ with him that- whatever this is- it doesn’t matter. Sulkily, he shoves his head underneath his pillow, judging that it might be less bothersome that way. 

____

The sound persists and its volume is so overwhelming compared to the silence Harry which has become used to. Hiding in the space between his mattress and his pillow, he can ignore it no longer. It is ruining his depressive episode, for fucks sake. _Random and most likely meaningless noise: 1, Harry: 0._

____

____He climbs out of bed in bewilderment, now marginally concerned that a bird might have managed to fly in whilst the windows were open. Merlin- as if he could handle trying to get it out, if one has. Knowing his fragile state of mind, he would probably burst into sobs within a second. That would be enough to scare it away._ _ _ _

____

____All around the room he searches: under the beds, behind the chest of drawers- he even dares to fleetingly check the insides of Anthony’s boots, just in case the poor little guy is suffocating in the stench. He can’t find it anywhere, and he lifts up his head, baffled. Straining his ears, Harry tries to tune in to the noise. It takes a moment, but he finds that the source is the sound is indeed the bathroom._ _ _ _

____

_Shit- Malfoy isn’t drowning the unlucky sod is he?_ In a panic, Harry puts his ear up against the door, but abruptly comes to understand the mistake he has made. 

____

____Inside the bathroom, Malfoy is singing. If it can even be called that. Perhaps the most off-pitch, strained, god awful singing Harry has ever heard, but still singing nonetheless. He slaps his hand up to his mouth to stop himself from laughing from pure shock. Snorting to himself, he starts waving his fingers in time to the song Malfoy is warbling along to, as if he is conducting him. This is so fucking weird, he has to laugh- or he will cry.____

_______ _ _ _

____Suddenly, he notices that the shower has turned off, and thus Harry realises too late that Malfoy will be coming out any second. He scrambles around, almost tripping over his own feet in haste to find a suitable position to be caught in, as opposed to lurking right outside the door like some kind of pervert. Hearing the lock unhatch, he just throws himself onto his bed and wills his limbs to move at the speed of light so that he isn’t just sprawled about like some lunatic._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

The door swings open and Malfoy saunters out, thankfully clothed. Harry releases a breath, which he hadn’t even realised he was holding in, at the sight of him fully dressed. _At least this could have been weirder_ , he offers himself as comfort, even though witnessing Malfoy in just a t-shirt and trousers is still enough to make him squirm uncomfortably. 

_______ _ _ _

____His hair is wet from the shower, and to Harry’s horror, has been converted from a snowy white colour to a dark blonde, due to the moisture. It almost completely transfigures his appearance, and Harry wishes it gone. As if he needed Malfoy to feel anymore like a stranger than he already does._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

____A drip trickles down his face and into the collar of his shirt, and Harry closes his eyes for a second, not wanting to see it. When he pries them open again, nothing has changed; another droplet falls._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

____Malfoy still doesn’t see him, with his body turned to face the window opposite Harry. He wonders whether maybe Malfoy might just leave now, allowing Harry to get away with being privy to this moment- this startling show of informality, where the other boy undeniably thought he was alone. Then, the twat just has to go and surprise him yet again by stretching his arm behind his head, displaying an unexpected sight. On his left forearm, right where the Dark Mark used to taint his body, is a new scar. It is mottled in gruesome shades of red and irritated, as if it is still healing. All the way up, it is riddled with broken skin and slashes of scar tissue. There are slithers of the tattoo creeping through, like flecks of decay._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

____It is a burn mark. Harry gasps; Malfoy spins around._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

____Catching sight of Harry’s awkward and stiff body, Malfoy narrows his eyes dramatically. He suddenly seems to notice that his marred arm is still on display, and crosses it over his chest with a red face. The anger in his eyes could leave scorch marks. Under it all, Harry detects a layer of embarrassment. On his part, Harry is so shocked it feels like his heart has stopped beating._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

____“Get the fuck out,” Malfoy says heatedly. As soon as the words leave his lips, his eyes widen and the red stain on his cheeks spreads higher.____

_____ _

_____ _

___Did Malfoy just swear at him? Harry thinks that he should probably check if his ears are working right. Acting like he has done something highly illegal, rather than just curse at Harry, Malfoy winces, looking pained._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

And Harry? He wants to jump up in celebration, fist pump the air and scream with relief. A bubble of laughter rises in him- he feels almost hysterical at how refreshing it is to have the boy he once knew become real again. _Finally._ Rage has never looked so wonderful, he thinks, observing the confused expression on the boy’s face. Malfoy probably judges him as delirious with the way that he grins wildly back. 

_______ _ _ _

____“Uh, Malfoy,” says Harry elegantly, revelling in the moment, “This is my room too. I live here.”_ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

____“I apologise,” Malfoy responds with an eye roll, every syllable cold, and Harry thinks that he probably has never been less sorry, “I only mean to say, I thought you would be in class.” His expression is stony hard, his glower is trained on Harry like he might suddenly bite. It is a bit formal for Harry’s liking, even as full of venom as it is, and the devil on his shoulder eggs him on._ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

He ignores the question in the comment, and instead throws it back in the bastard’s pointy face. “What about you, Malfoy? Maybe I had too much faith in you, but I thought you would be doing a bit more to prove yourself this year. Not in class?” he says, and he tunes out the part of him that deflates at how spiteful he sounds. Why did he ever think they could be anything less? Friendly civility, boring civility- it clearly doesn’t work for them. Harry hopes that Malfoy recognises this now- he feels mad with how much he wants him to- and decides to ditch this charade once and for all. 

_______ _ _ _

___Malfoy’s scowl somehow becomes even more poisonous and he steps a bit closer. Harry’s palms are sweaty. He wonders if he could be classified as an adrenaline junkie, with how much he is liking the electric flavour of danger. It is so drastically different to his usual lack of senses- his mind is in overdrive, his body is becoming unstuck by the second._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

“I don’t need to prove myself to anyone, especially you,” spits Malfoy, “Potter.” _Ah, there we go_. 

_______ _ _ _

___“No?” Harry pokes the fire without fear, “You don’t think?” He eyes Malfoy’s arm, and the implication of it is heavy._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___Malfoy seems to genuinely panic when he realises where Harry’s gaze has landed, and he falters in his stride. Harry didn't even notice how close they have become. At some point, he must have stood up for he is now on his feet, but he couldn’t deduce when even if you paid him to. The last few minutes are a haze of sudden thrill and unexpressed anger. He can no longer tell which emotions are his, and which are Malfoy’s. Whatever fury the boy is feeling, Harry now knows it too. They seem to have blurred into one, and the energy buzzes around the room._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___“No,” Malfoy says, with poison in his voice, and he almost sounds like he is challenging Harry, “I don’t.”_ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___This is too much for him. It is one thing for Malfoy to have partaken in the Dark side, but to claim he doesn’t need to work for forgiveness? Looking at Malfoy's sharp, unsure features, Harry would like to believe it isn’t true that this is how he feels. Deep down, he thinks that Malfoy is just provoking Harry, like how Harry is him. He scans the expanse of scar tissue on the other boy's arm- he must have forgotten that he was trying to hide it for it is now exposed again- and feels it in his stomach that Malfoy is lying._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___It still pisses him off._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___“Oh, really?” asks Harry incredulously, “You really think that you deserve to be forgiven? Just like that?”_ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___Malfoy hesitates and some of his ire visibly leaves his body. Harry stares him down, and the anger in his grey eyes dies, leaving nothing behind but an unreadable abyss. He clenches his jaw and when his answer comes, he says it so unconvincingly it sounds like it is being ripped from his throat._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___Voice wobbly, Malfoy whispers, “Yes.”___

_____ _

_____ _

___He cringes afterwards, eyes wide and regretful, and the water droplets that have fallen from his hair onto his cheeks look like tears. Harry can’t stand it._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___“You’re wrong,” retorts Harry, daring him to disagree.___

_____ _

_____ _

___To that, Malfoy says nothing. Diverting his eyes from Harry’s, he bites his pasty cheek and lets the statement lie in the air undisputed. It is this that aggravates Harry the most. After all their fights and so many years of rivalry, Malfoy just leans back and admits defeat like it is the easiest thing in the fucking world. Harry can't relate. The idea is torment and he won’t have it, no._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___Too much too soon- too abrupt, Harry jolts towards Malfoy, fists clenched and jaw locked. There is a pool of pent-up frustration swirling in his stomach, and the root of the problem is right in front of him, hair sodden and creating a puddle on the floor. He wants to shake some sense into the dickhead. Suddenly standing right before Malfoy, and feeling shorter than he cares for, he almost goes to do so. His limbs seem to move of their own accord and he is just about to seize Malfoy’s thin arm, when he catches sight of the look on his face._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

He gets a flashback, and sees himself as the two unidentified boys who beat Malfoy up. Harry hadn’t been about to do such a thing, _fuck_ no, his feelings towards the twat don’t extend to violence. Not anymore, at least. Even just imagining it, he grows nauseous- it hits far too close to the memory of sixth year Malfoy lying in a river of his own blood, as Harry bends over him, wand shaking in his unsteady grasp. No, never again. But the expression Malfoy is pulling now- one of miserable resignation- is what Harry witnessed only the other day. Malfoy curled tightly on the floor, surrounded by his school work, right before it got kicked away by the boot of the bullies. 

_______ _ _ _

___Freezing on the spot, his hand hovers in mid air._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

“Going to hurt me, Potter?” Malfoy says with his chin in the air, and he stares at Harry with the question written on his face. He is shaking.

_______ _ _ _

“No,” Harry replies, unable to meet that silver gaze. On second thought, he might be the one shaking. 

_______ _ _ _

___Harry hears Malfoy let out a sigh of relief, and he takes the opportunity to do the same. As he breathes back in, he gets a whiff of lavender and concludes, with great grief, that it is coming from the figure in front of him. Great. Now he knows Malfoy’s scent. A professional Obliviation sounds paradisiacal right about now._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___Disturbing the silence, Malfoy jerks away with enough force it knocks Harry back a step. Forcibly. Quickly- as if he finds now that he cannot get enough distance between them. It whips up a wind that slaps Harry directly in the face, leaving behind a trace of lavender. Malfoy’s cheeks are a bright red and Harry realises his jumper is damp from where the other boy’s wet hair had dripped onto him. They had been seriously close._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___“Good,” says Malfoy, backing away. “I shall be going then.” He moves erratically, like he has been burnt. Oh wait- he has, Harry remembers with a small jolt._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

___For once, Harry is glad.___

_____ _

He needs his bed _now_ , and it wouldn’t do anybody any good to have Malfoy here to witness it. Stumbling backwards, Harry finds that he almost feels intoxicated. He lets his bed catch him as he falls back, and watches with a sick sensation in his stomach as Malfoy hurries away down the corridor. Again, he lost control of the conversation without even realising it. Why does he even try? 

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

___He lies back on his bed in a dramatic flop, for who is there here to judge him? Certainly not Malfoy, nor any stupid singing birds. Fuck, was it only about ten minutes ago that he was chuckling to himself over Malfoy’s shower voice? It seems like a lifetime ago. His head is pounding; he wonders how he managed to go from slumping in his bed, straight to riding the high of arguing with Malfoy, and then, now, to feeling like he just battled all three Fates at once, and lost._ _ _

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

Harry grabs his hair and pulls it fiercely, in the hopes that it might yank the _stupid_ right out of his brain. Well, if Harry wanted Malfoy not to switch dormitories, he certainly has fucked himself over. Doubtlessly, he will wake up tomorrow morning to the news. In the midst the moment, he didn’t even consider this consequence, taunting the other boy senselessly. In fact, Harry isn’t even sure whether he was thinking at all. 

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

___He is grateful the bed is here to support him, otherwise he feels like he could fall through the earth and never come up. There is nothing on the ceiling to distract him as he lies on his back, opposing it, and it feels like a great betrayal on behalf of Hogwarts._ _ _

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

___However long later, he sits up, and shuffles into a somewhat dignified position. He is just closing his eyes, succumbing to the fatigue that rings throughout his body, when he identifies something peculiar on Malfoy’s bed._ _ _

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

___Sprawled across the sheets messily, a testament to Malfoy’s lack of restraint prior to noticing Harry, are the pieces of paper that he has been carrying about for days. The very ones that Harry has been tracking with increasingly high levels of suspicion and intrigue- crumpled and abundant in number. Just lying there, unsupervised._ _ _

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

___Well, Harry has never been one to deny his curiosity. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he stands up._ _ _

_____ _

_______ _ _ _

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo hope u liked that! just want to say thank you so much for reading, your comments are all so kind and they make me so happy. im actually quite surprised that so many of you are enjoying this story, so i hope i can deliver for you all. THIS TOOK ME SO LONG probs at least a good 30 hours.. im fine tho, just running on endless cups of tea. speaking of, i need to bring tea back into harrys life. its my coping mechanism and i like to imagine it is one of his only ones too. i hope this all makes sense to you all (or rather, doesn't, since it doesn't make sense to harry). this is all supposed to exploring how illogical the human mind can be sometimes and how lost u can feel in urself. love u all, hope ur well xxx 
> 
> ALSO QUESTION: would you guys prefer if i updated less regularly (every week-two weeks) with 10k+ updates, or at least once a week with 4k/5k??? because as much as i would love to, i probably can't do chapters this length every few days, because i won't have time for literally anything else in my life. trust me, i wish i could... lemme know x


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry finally reads draco's mysterious 'papers'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh... hello everyone! i would be seriously surprised if there was anyone still sticking with this story tbh after me abandoning it for like 5 months but im really ready to get back on track.. i already have another chapter written and ive found the motivation in me to write again. i'd love it if u stay around for the journey, because i promise it will be great (well i hope so)!!! im quite pleased with this chapter, so i hope you all enjoy (you might want to reread what has already happened if you've been waiting all this time)

_Memories- extreme  
Nettle- diced  
Mistletoe berries  
Valerian (sprigs????? Potency)  
Lethe River  
Phoenix ashes  
Infusion of wormwood- wormwood also  
Juice of a Sophorus Bean (definitely)  
Asphodel- (root? Powdered possibly)_

_Quantities unknown, drunk at new moon perhaps?_

Harry reads it over, and over, and over, until it becomes meaningless. Whole words turn into staggered letters. Letters turn into code. On it goes, reducing all the while, until all he is looking at are lines, lines which swoop continuously across the page. Malfoy’s handwriting apparently only turns more elaborate the more messily he writes. Harry rolls his eyes at that. It is just like the git to be so controversial. 

Time flits by and the sunlight fades with it. His eyes are tired from the strain of staring, especially now that the dark creeps in. He isn’t sure what he is expecting to happen, but the hope he has been holding out for a sudden enlightenment is beginning to crumble. For as long as the paper has been taunting him, he has been imagining wild scenarios in which Malfoy was plotting Harry’s own demise. This seems anticlimactic- practically boring- in comparison. Just a list of ingredients, most of which could be found in Snape’s old store cupboard.

And yet there is something about it that makes him decide assuredly that it matters. 

The second piece of paper lies crumpled beside him too, but the single word that is written, _Loughfowl_ , offers him nothing substantial. A name, it appears. Unimportant. There is a third piece too, but Harry had taken one fleeting glance at the colossal black ink blot, and understood immediately that Malfoy had scribbled it all out, rendering it useless. Subsequently, those two are a no go and are not the cause of his growing headache. 

This first sheet, however- he has some semblance of understanding of it, though his certainty dwindles with every passing beat of his pounding head. Despite what his abysmal years as a Potions student might indicate, Harry is able to at least deduce that they are, in fact, ingredients. If not for the recognisable elements, then because seeing Malfoy stealing supplies from the Potions classroom is pretty much a telltale sign. 

What he is not sure on, is what the fuck it all means after that. 

Some of the ingredients spark a memory in his brain- Snape’s nasal voice coming in flashes- but his exhausted self can hardly stretch his brain back to his near-fight with Malfoy this afternoon. Asking himself to recall Hogwarts Potions lessons from years long gone is a step too far into the past. For now, he needs to focus on the present, and the messy scrawl of words that are directly in his grip, yet somehow so out of reach.

Of course, it is indeed possible that the resulting potion from all these ingredients is harmless. Something for sleep, perhaps, or educational purposes. Merlin knows that half of Hogwarts are more than likely brewing Cheering Potions to get through the days. If Harry had the capability to successfully make one without poisoning himself in the process, he would absolutely be down in the doom and gloom of the dungeons with them. He even entertains the idea that it is just a madman’s ramblings, driven by the hour of the night and the pungent fumes coming from the cauldrons. As always, the odds are against Harry. It is all very probable that this is a mundane list, nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except that this is Malfoy, and nothing is ever transparent with him. 

And as he reads it again, he thinks that your average potion would hardly require Phoenix ashes. He doesn’t even want to touch upon the elusive ‘memories’ part of the recipe, not with his head splitting open and his body wrecked with fatigue. Maybe tomorrow. 

Definitely tomorrow.

Without thinking about it, Harry locks the paper in the trunk at the foot of his bed with double enchantments, and gets into bed. He wandlessly casts quick cleaning charms over his body, and climbs into bed, not caring for menial tasks tonight. Those are for when he is numb, craving routine- not nights fuelled by stupidity and exhaustion. Justin may or may not come in soon and wonder why the fuck Harry is going to bed when it is not even nine yet, but he doesn’t much care. 

At some point, Justin proves him right and does retire for the night. Harry is hyper-aware of the lack of others in the room. The chances are high that Malfoy is sleeping in another dorm-room by now, blissfully Harry-free. After his own embarrassing display of anger today, he would be surprised if he is ever even able to face the twat again with any bearing of pride. If their feud were a battle, Harry unquestionably lost the instant he let himself succumb to whatever monstrous fire they have unintentionally built between them. Until now, he has almost always held it together. Almost.

As he lies there, cursed by his thoughts to stay awake even in spite of his need to sleep, he imagines that instead of some random dorm, Malfoy is in the lab right now. The image makes him restless to go and check, and a wave of self-loathing throttles him for entertaining the idea. Harry clenches a fistful of his pillow, willing his subconscious to pipe down. He envisages Malfoy: glasses on, sleeves rolled up and baring his hideous scarred Dark Mark proudly to the ghouls that lurk down there. The cauldrons bubble furiously, masking the noise of Malfoy scrawling more senseless Potions recipes.

He eventually falls asleep to the eerie vision of Malfoy as a ghost himself. His burn scars glint dully in the light of the lanterns, his skin like mist. Then, dream-Malfoy fades into the air, till there is nothing but the stagnant air where his soul had once been.

In the morning, Harry recalls the most chilling part: how close it already felt to reality. 

\------

The following day refuses to bring Harry any clarity and he feels cheated. Why was the phrase ‘sleep on it’ ever invented if doing just that made his brain fuzzier than before? 

He doesn’t see Malfoy once, or at least, not in person. There is a constant image of him in Harry’s mind, water droplets from his shower rolling down his icy skin as he stares daggers in Harry’s direction. Getting evermore crinkled in his satchel, the cursed papers feel like the weight of one thousand lead cauldrons. Even Harry after a Weasley Christmas dinner isn’t as heavy.

As if one day without answers wasn’t enough, it rolls onto the next, and then the next. Another. Another. Hermione and Ron get distracted by a new trip that they are planning to take in the holidays, and soon they forget to check up on Harry so often. He reflects once more on how pathetic he is when left to his own devices. They are thinking of going to visit Charlie in Romania, and then touring the country a bit. Ron is practically bursting with excitement, and as much as Harry would like to believe it has something to do with seeing his absent brother, he cringes and resigns himself to the fact that it is probably more about the empty tent and enlarged double bed. Better than a broom cupboard, for sure.

“Maybe you could come with us next year, Harry,” says Hermione kindly from across the table.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says unconvinced and awkward. He doesn’t really fancy third wheeling for two weeks straight. 

After looking him up once and down with half narrowed eyes, Hermione turns back to chatting with Ron. His eyes practically sparkle as she pecks him on the lips just once, flushing all the while. Suddenly, a sprinkle of something white and glistening falls into Harry’s tomato soup. He looks up, confused, and sees that above Ron’s mop of ginger hair, is his own personal snow cloud. Giggling, Hermione scoops a handful and blows it into his face. A twinge of loneliness twists in Harry’s stomach at the gentle display. 

Daring a fleeting glance at the Slytherin table, Harry is met with nothing but the curious eyes of the first years and he whips his head back before anyone can question his actions. Ginny hits the back of his head with a piece of toast and he realises that he has been spotted.

“What?” he asks as innocently as he can, but he thinks that his weak voice betrays him.

She just raises an eyebrow in an all-knowing manner, turns to Luna, taking her hand... and then that’s that. Harry frowns, slurps his now-frosty soup and turns to no-one. 

His spoon is cold against his thin fingers and he wishes he had some mittens. Or a self-heating spoon. That would be quite a luxury. He ponders whether Hermione could charm him one, but when he spots her snuggled into Ron’s shoulder like it is the happiest place on earth, he thinks that she is busy enough. Sighing, he shovels another mouthful of his soup with his regular, uncharmed spoon, only to find that it too has cooled immensely, thanks to Ron and his romantic snowflakes. He glares at it and pushes it away, having suddenly lost his appetite. Nobody pays his miniature tantrum any mind, and he judges it odd that he is always paid so much attention, yet simultaneously so little. Harry sometimes feels like he could stand on the table now and shout that he were to jump off the nearest mountain, and still nobody would discover him until they needed a good ol’ stare at or favour from their gracious Saviour, and couldn’t get it. 

Merlin, he is getting dramatic. He hates himself for it.

The weather gets chillier, and rain starts to fall more frequently. His walks around the castle grounds, however, pursue. Sometimes he remembers an umbrella and he reserves a quick pat on the back for himself. Mostly he doesn’t but it is no matter, because with every splash of rain on his cheeks, comes the appeasing sensation that he is being cleansed. The clouds release their tension and so does he; it is a pleasant company. 

One time, he takes his satchel with him on an exceptionally blowy day. He bears it well for around twenty minutes, but when the wind causes his eyes to sting with tears, Harry seeks refuge. 

Searching along the banks of the Black Lake, he spots a sturdy oak tree and braces himself for the run towards it. His boots get muddy and he trips a little, but the speed of the wind catching his robes is an experience near enough to flying that it makes him grin. Probably looking like Hogwarts resident madman, Harry stretches his arms out in the fashion of an eagle, the same way he sat on Buckbeak all those years ago.

He smiles to himself and plonks down under the tree. A caramel coloured leaf falls on his nose and he watches as it tumbles into his lap. Then, like the universe is pulling one perverted prank, the leaf shuffles over, cruelly slowly, to land on the very part of his bag where he knows Malfoy’s papers are stuffed away. Knows better than anything else, even. It settles there, mocking him.

“Funny one,” he says to nobody in particular and caves into the itching to get them out again. Who is he to argue with the universe? 

Undoing the buckles, he reaches into the deep mess of his satchel, trying to deny how easy this motion has become. His fingers find the familiar scratchy parchment and he pulls them out fluidly in one move. 

_Memories_ , Harry reads; the wind howls louder. 

It is nonsensical. When all is said and done, he hasn’t the foggiest what kind of Potion would require such a bizarre ingredient. Not that is necessarily something he would have any knowledge of- Harry isn’t a Potions master by any standards. Speaking of...he speculates- granted without any evidence- whether this is a task Snape could have left behind for Malfoy. It would have been just like the greasy bastard to refuse to go without a dramatic exit. Truly, it is almost too easy to envisage Snape entering Kings Cross Station, or whatever his equivalent was, with his signature ridiculous swooshing of his robes. Harry hopes he tripped over them upon arrival. 

_Memories_

He frowns and realises his eyes have dry from staring for so long. To give them- and his mind- a break, Harry inspects the castle, which fills the landscape in such a way that it seems like there is no perceivable way for it to reach an end. Looking upon its greatness, he feels a familiar sense of awe. Familiar from what? He can’t pinpoint it. It is only at the very moment that the lake’s ripples lash at a nearby rock that it strikes him. 

A hazy memory- one which feels elusive, even eternal. Standing with his soles buried in the sand, the waves licking at his toes, a salty breeze fresh on his cheeks, he looks upon the sea. He realises that he could search every corner of the ocean, could spend years crawling the seabed, and she would still never completely trust him with all her secrets. She would simply change the tide, maybe invoke a storm that creates whole new caverns, and it would all change. 

This is not unlike Hogwarts. He has come to recognise the castle as its own entity, regardless of the students inside. The sense of independence is something you have to respect and not fear. 

He loves it, the freedom. It is infectious. Maybe- it is only a small chance, but just maybe, it could help him to stop regarding the place as his prison. 

Feeling oddly nostalgic for nothing specific, he considers again the word memory. He reckons that Hogwarts has a lot of that. But what could it mean for Malfoy’s potion? Perhaps that he must recall an emotional moment in his past, as one must do to produce a Patronus? _No._ That seems too precarious, too unstable to be an ingredient. Of course, it is also possible that it could be linked to whatever spell Malfoy seems to be routinely practising. Whilst not a Patronus Charm, the silver bursts of light indicate that it could be perhaps within the same realm. 

Really, he has no fucking clue. He sighs, pining after a world where he doesn’t care about Malfoys and their suspicious behaviours, but knowing such a thing is impossible.

The Astronomy tower catches Harry’s eye, sticking out like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and history replays in his mind. Dumbledore had let him believe one too many wrong things on that fateful night. It had taken Harry a long time to feel angry. Sad? Sure. Confused? Absolutely. Rage came last, but it didn’t disappoint. 

It was purely luck that Harry managed to catch Snape’s memories that night in the Shrieking Shack and he loathes to think that Dumbledore ever really had a plan that involved telling him anything remotely useful. If you are going to have to inevitably die at the hands of a genocidal lunatic, it is always a good idea to come prepared, after all.

Suddenly- “Wait,” he mumbles out loud.

Snape’s memories. 

_Memories_.

Certainty smacks him in the head. The potion requires Pensieve memories. It is so plainly obvious, Harry feels like a dunce for not figuring it out earlier. Merlin, he always knew he wasn’t the brightest, but now he wholly understands what Hermione means when she says him and Ron weren’t “destined for Ravenclaw” in that tone of hers.

Somehow, he is now one step closer to solving this puzzle. Victory is so near he can practically smell it. Although, Harry reminds himself as he pulls his body up, he has had a whiff of it before. He isn’t a fan of the taste of the aftermath. Maybe he really should leave it alone this time. This could be personal, intrusive even. Does Harry honestly want to get caught up in Malfoy’s melancholy world?

Harry takes one final glance at the Astronomy Tower, remembering how vindicated he had felt seeing Malfoy’s trembling figure above him, wand raised at the man who offered him a chance, and decides for the final time he has no choice. It could be dangerous. There will be no more deliberating. He is formally investigating Draco Malfoy on the grounds of extremely dubious behaviour.

 _I’m doing it for Hogwarts_ , he tells himself, only partially lying. 

\----

With the new temperatures, comes Hogwarts infamous woolen season. Harry dons his latest Weasley jumper, noting how baggy it has become on him since only last year. He also takes great joy in unlodging his knitted beanie from the bottom of his trunk, laughing when Justin reveals his own penguin-patterned one. Calling Harry out for his judgemental attitude, Justin demands he must wear it about for the duration of a school day as payment. He caves in and tries to tune out the looks he gets. Frankly, it is some comfort that he gets stared at for the ridiculous, cartoon bird wearing ice skates on his head as opposed to the usual reasons.

It makes him feel relatively normal.

Or maybe people are finally convinced of the raw truth: Harry Potter has lost the plot.

For a while, every direction he takes is a swamp of students dressed in mid-autumn gear. Seriously, it is like gazing upon a field of bobble-hats when the first years finish their lessons. It has always been this way- offensive knitwear is, in all ways but literally, a Hogwarts tradition. However, this year, the larger crowds forming indoors as a result of the cold weather, bring Harry much grievance and anxiety. So instead he finds himself seeking alternative passages, and gets to know the castle in yet another way. One would almost think he was up to no good again, with the level of sneaking and evading he is doing. Only this time he is running from chatty eleven year olds, not an evil Dark Lord. 

At one particularly low point in his exploring, he opens the door to what he assumed would be another corridor, and rather catches Seamus and Dean in the act for the second time. This time it was at least seventy-five degrees more compromising than the last. _Fucking hell_ and then he regrets that thought when it brings more images of said _fucking_ to the forefront of his mind. They look up and face him in shock, and Harry is mortified to see that the lack of coverage over Seamus’ genitals only becomes more obvious when Dean moves his head. He stammers an incomprehensible apology, wasting no time before running away at the sound of their embarrassed laughter.

It is when he is rubbing his eyes, trying to assure himself that he did not just see Dean on his knees, _sucking_ , that he stumbles into something hard and unforgiving. The sudden force of it shocks him in his place. Forcing his body to relax is a strain and an upheaval he begs to never experience again. To translate to his muscles that he is not in any immediate danger is difficult, especially when a sense of dread tells him he very well could be. 

This same intuition tells him not to lift his head. However, some of the rot in his head must finally be spreading, because he completely misses the memo and rather, does just that. 

Steel eyes are staring down at him, tearing him apart, and he seizes up again. A mixture of panic and something else indiscernible swirls in the thick iron of them. This close, Harry notices that Malfoy has a faint birthmark on his left eyebrow. Weird. 

He doesn’t move for a split second, and neither does the boy against him. There is one tense beat- the calm before the storm. They are simply frozen where they stand. Then Malfoy ruins it by shoving him right in the chest and, though it wasn’t particularly forceful, Harry feels the pain of it throughout his body. 

Harry is pissed off by the wave of emotion that flares up at seeing Malfoy again. After an agonisingly long week of the furious desire to understand the meaning behind the ingredients, he thinks the list could now be scorched into his brain for the amount he has reread it. He even had had Hermione take a thorough look, pretending that it was something he had picked up from Justin. A sort of project that he and Harry were working on together. He had felt guilty at using Justin as an excuse but the embarrassment of the truth would have been too much to bear. Predictably, she had had no clue- something which infuriated her greatly- though was preening at Harry voluntarily doing work. Ron had practically had to restrain her from running to the library to start researching. On his part, Harry had had to bite down the comment that maybe he should let her go.

Malfoy coughs slightly, and whirls backwards with abruptness. His heeled boot stamps on Harry’s foot and he resists the urge to yelp. 

“So now we’re stalking _and_ attacking me, are we, Potter?” Malfoy sneers automatically, straightening out his robes, which Harry must have mussed up. There is a strand of hair sticking up at the back of his head. “Should I contact your good friends the Aurors now, or later?”

Curiously, he then grimaces, almost as if he said something he didn’t mean to. This keeps happening; he wonders, for the millionth time, why Malfoy is so reluctant to speak these days. 

“No need,” Harry answers, quietly delighted to hear so many words fall out of Malfoy’s mouth at once, “It’s not my fault that you're lurking up and down the corridors like a slimy git.”

Someone’s toad hops down the corridor, distracting him momentarily, and Harry hopes it’s not Trevor. Malfoy watches it too, and jumps when it lets out a loud _Ribit_. He glares at the creature as it bounds away and then focuses back on Harry with the same disdain.

“Well, perhaps if you had been using your eyes, you would have noticed that I was, in fact, not the one lurking at all,” says Malfoy, all hostile and bristled at the small insinuation behind Harry’s words. Harry waits for the jab at his shit eyesight. It never comes; he wishes it would.

He takes Malfoy’s stiffness as an indication that he was, indeed, being a slimy git in some shape or form, and is trying to get Harry off his back with feeble insults. Well, he won’t stand for that.

“I guess I must’ve been walking too fast then,” he says. Malfoy narrows his eyes. “So sorry,” Harry finishes drily. He hopes the git picked up on the part of that sentence where he isn’t actually sorry in the slightest. From the unamused downturn of the other boy’s lips, Harry assumes he did.

He looks Harry up and down once, assessing him as one might do a remarkably annoying child, proceeding to walk away only when Harry stares back at him blankly. Harry panics a bit, but watches his back and counts two steps in his head.

_Click, Clack._

Now.

“Malfoy?” shouts Harry, willing that this next part comes out as smoothly as he is currently rehearsing it in his head. 

At the call of his name, Malfoy’s figure pauses. On the crown of his head, that divergent lock of hair still pokes out rebelliously and Harry is bothered by it. Without turning around, he calls back, sounding like he couldn’t be less interested in what Harry has to say. 

“Yes, Potter?”

When Harry doesn’t offer any immediate response, he gives in and faces him again. He raises his eyebrow expectancy. It shows off his birthmark.

“Uhm..” Not a strong start. “I don’t suppose you’ve, uh, lost any papers recently, have you?” says Harry, deciding he may as well poke the fire, and not daring to take the time to regret his decisions, follows it up with, “Notes or anything of the sort?”

The tension in Malfoy’s body seems to triple tenfold. If Harry didn’t know the value of those parchments already from the reckless midnight Potions trips and the unorthodox spells being practised in the witching hours, the way that Malfoy stiffens now is a dead giveaway. He stalks towards Harry with a furrow in his pale brow. Harry gulps, considering that running might be his best chance of survival. However, with the fatigue in his legs from his solo escapade around Hogwarts, he probably would only make it as far as the end of this corridor before Malfoy _Avadas_ him in the back.

Instead of fleeing, his apparent deathwish prevails and he awaits Malfoy’s response eagerly, hoping he might reveal what he has been working on in his distress. And if there was just something about the life in the boy’s eyes during their episode in the dormitory last week that sent a little thrill to running up Harry’s spine, then sue him for wanting it back.

Malfoy stops about a metre away. He parts his lips, body rearing like the air before a lightning strike. Then, abruptly, he stops in his tracks, and appears to change the course of his sentence. Some of the painful tautness in his body eases to just a recognisable rigid as his walls go up. Nothing in the known universe could explain why this frustrates Harry.

“None,” Malfoy states firmly and without a scrap of emotion- the world’s best liar. Even Harry, in all his suspicion, would have been convinced, had it not been for the very papers in question crumpled at the bottom of his bag.

“Oh really?” Harry says, pulse is thrumming, “Nothing gone at all?”

He is unsure in what direction he is heading with this, but like hell if Malfoy thinks Harry will be willing to let him slip away from him after such a dragging week. Who knows when he will see him again? He hasn’t been back to his dormitory once as far as Harry is concerned. Not even for the glasses case which he can’t help but keep noticing, perched upon Malfoy’s desk.

“I am very certain,” says Malfoy, turning away.

Harry is disgruntled. Surely he can’t be walking away from Harry now? Not after Harry has put so much on the line in revealing what he knows. It was risk, but he had assumed it would pay off.

Proving himself a real pain in the arse, and Harry wrong, Malfoy starts striding down the corridor without so much as a pity glance in Harry’s direction. This won’t do. He is determined to get something out of this- at least some sort of justification for being suspicious. Otherwise, he will just feel like a twat. More so than usual, that is.

He stumbles after the boy and pushes further. “That’s odd. Could've sworn I saw some of yours lying around the other day,” Malfoy ignores him and his pace quickens, “Something about a potion, if my memory is right.”

“Well that answers your own question,” says Malfoy very matter-of-factly, “Your memory is not right. We all know you’ve gone round the bend. Everyone says it.” It is an insult alright, but a rather halfhearted one. And a bit weak, if Harry is being honest. These meagre prods are for the likes of Ernie Macmillian, or someone else who is only _half_ of a tosser. As a result, Harry is only _half_ satisfied and he opens his mouth to retort, but Malfoy cuts him off resolutely. “Go and bother someone else. I’m busy, Potter.”

How Malfoy manages to make Harry feel twelve again is unbeknownst to him. His steps are arrogant and large and Harry tries not to show how tired he is becoming by this chase. As casually as possible, he scurries alongside the other boy; a minor slash of irritation cuts through him when he realises how much shorter he is. Great. Mentally _and_ physically in second year.

He may as well own it, before he gets sucked into an inevitable spiral of disgrace. 

They turn a corner together, and soon ascend a staircase. He considers that Malfoy could be leading him to his own murder, could open the door to a room with Harry’s coffin already nailed in place. What would Ron think about him following after Malfoy like this? Harry shakes the shame and pursues the more pressing issue.

“Busy?” he starts and receives no response, “Busy...with things like missing notes?”

“No, Potter. Busy with none of your bloody business,” His long legs somehow start to plough forward even more rapidly.

At the risk of sounding like a whining child, Harry is fed up. He is tired and extremely hungry, having missed dinner by now. When he focuses a little, he notices that his legs are marginally shaking. Whether that is from the intensity of his day or the running from Dean and Seamus, he isn’t sure. He wants to go to bed. The least Malfoy could do is answer his perfectly sane questions. And they _are_ bloody sane.

“Calm down there, Malfoy,” he says, despite the blonde’s impeccably calm demeanour, “Someone might start to think you actually feel something.”

Malfoy side-eyes him then, his face painted in minute bemusement. “Wouldn’t that be a miracle.” Something flashes in his silver gaze. 

“Uh…” Why is it that every time Malfoy opens his ugly mouth, Harry feels the metaphorical rug being pulled out from underneath him an inch more? Whatever workers run his colossal catastrophe of a brain must go on strike, because Harry has no idea how to answer that. This must be why he so elegantly says, “What?”

The expression on Malfoy’s face confirms his disregard for Harry’s eloquence.

He gathers himself, or at least attempts to, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” claims Harry.

“Good for you,” Malfoy says indifferently, the picture of stoicity.

If Harry doesn’t face some verbal abuse in the next five minutes, he very well might just punch this stupid facade away and demand Malfoy treat him like the rival he has always been. Maybe then the sinking pit in his stomach would cease falling lower and lower. 

In a desperate and admittedly deplorable last shot, he throws himself in front of Malfoy, stopping him in his tracks. Malfoy halts and merely looks a bit peeved at Harry’s presence. Harry on the other hand, feels wildly unstable, like he could say anything.

And he does. 

“What are you up to?” he accuses, “You’ve been skulking around for weeks. Don’t deny it.”

“Nothing. Some of us are just trying to pass our NEWTs.”

“Oh, really?” says Harry, unconvinced. 

“Yes” answers Malfoy, but his voice wobbles a fraction and his gaze couldn’t stray further away from Harry’s own.

“I don’t believe you, Malfoy,” Harry raises his chin in the air for what he hopes is a dramatic effect, and not a feeble effort to seem taller. In the silence of the castle, he is sure that that drumming sound is his heart threatening to plummet into his belly.

“You’ve said that already, you imbecile,” says Malfoy, pushing forcibly to walk past Harry. Try as he might, he finds himself blocked by Harry’s insistent figure. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone before you actually start doing so?”

Harry snorts, though without much humour. “Dunno. Feel free to keep trying. Why do you want me to go so badly?” he challenges, unrelenting. 

“Because you’re infuriating and the sight of you makes me want to break into Slughorn’s stores and down a bottle of his finest poison.” Malfoy says with utmost conviction, leaving Harry in disbelief at the fervor of the statement.

He finally breaks through Harry’s bodily barrier, only to spin around with his finger pointed in the air. 

“As a matter of fact,” Malfoy starts to say, and Harry can’t believe there is more coming, “I would like to modify my previous statement. Any poison. I am not fussy at this stage.” He finishes the sentence with an offensive glower, as if to impress how frustrated he is with Harry for simply not being dull enough to ignore.

“And?” he eggs Malfoy on, tasting fire which tickles his throat. 

Their eyes meet and Harry takes in a breath so deep it chokes him. 

“I hate you,” Malfoy spits. Every word, every syllable, is venom.

And it isn’t the satisfying release of animosity that Harry thought it would be. The bitterness in Malfoy’s low voice doesn’t stoke the fire building inside of him- it puts it out. None of this is what Harry wanted. But what he wanted, he couldn’t say.

“I don’t believe you,” he mutters, deflated. It is the third time he has said it, he knows, and he feels like somebody’s parrot. 

In Malfoy’s eyes, something flares; it looks frighteningly like regret. 

Once he is gone, because of course he leaves, the steps catch Harry as he drops. He burrows his head into his hands, overwhelmed with humiliation. In spite of his plight, one thought wiggles its way to the front, as pathetically incessant as Harry was only five minutes prior.

 _Well, I don’t hate you_.

\---- 

At the weekend, Harry, Ron and Hermione take a trip to The Three Broomsticks after sitting in the cold all day for the Quidditch match. Ron is feeling miffed, he can tell, about not being allowed to participate this year, and claims that he needs to get sloshed to dull the pain. Harry knows it isn’t a smart idea for himself to fly, regardless of him being an eighth year. One little episode, and he could collapse off of his broom before anyone is any the wiser. That doesn’t mean his heart didn’t ache when, in reflex, he spotted the snitch before either the Hufflepuff or the Gryffindor seeker. 

They search around for some free seats and Ron heads over to the bar. Fortunately, they manage to find a booth in a backroom, where the crowds of people are less hectic. Rather than numerous groups of young adults, drunk and booming, they are greeted by what appears to be a knitting group and some elderly men playing a card game. Harry breathes a little easier. From the corner, a lone wizard with hair so untamed it looks like it wrestled a bear- and lost- smiles at him and he returns the gesture. 

The floating lanterns are dimly lit, but cosy. Harry thinks he saw some once with great likeness at a market in London; the stall owner said they were Turkish. Studying the intricate patterns in the sea of red, orange and blue light, he decides they are simply beautiful. Wafting through the air is the gentle aromas of the kitchen, which is just down the corridor. Rosemary, thyme and warm herbs signal the cooking of a roast dinner. On the ceiling, vines have been bound around the beams and have now grown across the whole room. Leaves and crimson flowers are newly sprouting everywhere, peppering the ceiling with shrubs. Next to the dark wood, Harry feels like he is sitting under a tree. He hasn’t been back here before, always opting for the front of the pub in the past. It is very removed, their own secret den. As he gets comfortable, he notices that the booths have cushions. Huge, squishy things, patterned with swirls. They have tassels on each corner, and Harry idly fondles one in between his fingers. He relaxes. 

“I wonder how Rosmerta is doing these days,” comments Hermione as the woman in question comes out of the kitchen and passes by their table, levitating four trays above her. “You know, apparently Malfoy wrote her an apology over the summer?”

At the mention of Malfoy’s name, Harry’s ears prick up. As anticipated, he hasn’t seen him since their last incident. He has had more run-ins with bloody Peeves, for Merlin’s sake. The ponce is more of a phantom than any of the Hogwarts resident ghosts. By now, Harry assumes that he has formally moved dorm rooms, but Malfoy hasn’t been back to collect any of his belongings, which throws Harry off. The glasses case is still there. 

“Did he? I’m surprised his conscience stretches that far. How did you hear about that, then?” he asks, as nonchalantly as possible.

“Oh, Padma told me. Apparently she, Parvarti and Lavender come here on Tuesdays to have tea with her,” Hermione replies, “It was quite long I think, or at least that is what Padma told me. I have to say, I would be intrigued to know what he had to say.” Harry hums in agreement, mind racing. If Rosmerta got a letter, it is extremely likely that others did too; he wonders who.

Hermione peers through the archway that leads to the bar as Ron pays for their drinks. The galleons in Harry’s pockets suddenly feel uncomfortably heavy and he gets them out so that he doesn’t forget to pay Ron back. Whilst the Weasley’s have a tad more money in their Gringotts vaults these days, thanks to the roaring success of Weasley Wizard Wheezes and an overdue salary raise at the Ministry, Harry still has more gold than all of them combined. The guilt of it is an unwelcome burden, but he also knows to be gracious for his privilege. 

A middle aged witch comes in with a Kneazle perched on his shoulders. Briefly, she scans Harry and he cannot help but tense. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she offers a small smile and sits in the booth behind Hermione and Harry. He needs to learn to trust strangers again, though it is easier said than done.

“Got ‘em,” says Ron, arriving at their table. He places a Butterbeer in front of Hermione and Harry respectively, and with a wide grin, a Double Firewhiskey next to his own seat. “Had a run in with some dodgy looking bloke at the bar who told me that the Firewhiskey will make my hair fall out. Told him he sounded like a nutter, I did.” Still, Ron glanced at his tankard apprehensively. 

“That would be a sight to behold,” Harry laughs at the image, and Hermione chuckles with him, “Maybe it would, uh, bring out your bone structure?”

Ron seems to decide that this reasoning is solid enough and downs half of his drink in one gulp. He shivers and scrunches his face at the taste. “Anything to forget the pain of losing Quidditch. Going bald is worth it.”

“You do have great cheekbones,” says Hermione teasingly. 

A sip of his Butterbeer warms Harry’s insides, and alleviates some of the tight feeling in his stomach. Most of the time he doesn’t even realise it is there until it is gone. He supposes he is used to living with some type or pain, remembering Voldemort whispering in his head and the slow but steady poison that was wearing the locket. How depressing. He takes a second glug and the taste helps wash it away.

They chat aimlessly about nothing important, and it is brilliantly mundane. Hermione explains to them the benefits of studying an Arithmancy Masters, and Harry doesn’t even have to pretend to be interested, not when her face lights up so gleefully. It would be absurd to not want to listen.

A piece of Ron’s hair falls out when he scratches his head, and the petrified expression on his face is enough to send Hermione and Harry into fits. By the time he has finished laughing, he has a stitch in his side and feels like it is very possible that he could also have abs.

They drain their drinks until the last bubble disappears, and then order another round. Once these are also happily absorbed into Harry’s bloodstream, they set off for a wander around Hogsmeade. It is a much more enjoyable experience than when he was here the last time, after stepping out of the station. Now, he is pleasantly buzzed, and the cobblestones are slippery beneath him. Ron tumbles over and, grasping for a nearby surface, brings Hermione down with him. They collapse onto the ground in a heap, and Ron almost cries when he realises Hermione grabbed at his hair in the fall, pulling out another few strands. 

“Hermione!” he yelps, and she cackles, doubling over. Ron shoves his hat back on, as if it is his protective helmet.

“I’m going to look like Seamus’s left testicle when I lose my hair, I’m telling you,” and Hermione wacks him for being crude, before guffawing. Whilst Harry wants to laugh, he is rather sent into a mild state of horror, remembering that he has indeed seen Seamus’s left tescile. And his right. 

Shivering, he looks to the shop window on his right hand side. He examines the items on display and comes to understand that it is a bookstore. Archaic covers are woven with golden leaf imprints, and Harry notices that, bizarrely, one appears to be singing a melodic tune. The dark wooden sign states, with a carving now smooth from the Scottish weather which beats against it, that the place is named _Lockwood’s Book Emporium_. Feeling a tug in his stomach, he pushes the door open. A bell chimes somewhere as he enters the chilly room. Hermione follows a few moments later, and Harry faintly hears Ron mention that he is going into Zonkos, before dashing across the street.

The smell inside the store is musty, however not necessarily in a negative way. It is the type of scent that indicates an astonishingly old age, perhaps one that has been built up over a millenia. Not Harry’s favourite fragrance, he will admit, but it does make him think of Grimmauld Place. Whether that is a gratifying reminder or not, he isn’t sure. 

Behind the counter, sits a witch, plump and smiling, with violet hair in two large buns. She wears a modest floral dress which matches her welcoming manner. “Hello, I’m Jenna Lockwood,” she introduces herself, her surname indicating that this is her family business, “How can I help you?”

“Just having a browse, thank you,” Hermione answers politely when Harry doesn’t. Jenna nods her head in understanding and returns to counting the Sickles at the till. 

The store must stretch back for miles, Harry notes as he squints down the long rows of bookshelves. He feels mildly overwhelmed by the pure mass of content in the store. Where does he start looking? The further back the books go, the more obscure and interesting they appear to become. About six aisles down from him, there is a man handling a book which seems to be growing with every passing second. A little beyond him, one is hovering out of reach of a couple of young girls. Strangely, these don’t draw him in. When in doubt, it is always a good idea to start at the beginning, he supposes. 

At the entrance, there is a tall basket of books, right by the door, with a note attached. It reads: ‘half-price’. He heads towards them, judging that cheap is probably better anyway, but Hermione grabs his arm gently. “Harry, shall we go down there?” she points to the shelves by the man with the now humongous book, eyes bright with her intellect.

Harry shakes his head, feeling intrigued by the abandoned ones, “I think I’m gonna have a look at these.” 

“Alright then,” she says, conveying him her confusion. To her, the idea of simply just staying by the door in this haven of fiction and history, must be bewildering. “I’ll only be a few minutes, but don’t get too bored. Go and find Ron if you need to.” Then, she runs off into the horizon of the store and disappears from Harry’s vision. 

He rifles through the books in the discounted pile, immediately understanding why the prices have been knocked down. All of them are torn and damaged in some way, many so drastically that Harry can’t even fathom how it could have happened. One has a suspicious yellow stain spread all across the cover, and he warily avoids touching it. Disturbingly, another seems to be splattered in blood and he starts backing away in a mix of disgust and panic. Whatever alcohol-infused warmth was inside of him runs cold and he feels more sober than ever. The red blots trigger memories; at the forefront, he sees Fred’s bleeding body, and he counts his fingers in an attempt to calm his breathing. _One, two, three, four, five, si-_.

“It was just from a nosebleed,” Jenna says from behind him, startling his lungs back into normalcy. Sympathetically, she takes the offending object from the stack and, with a flick of her wrist, vanishes it wandlessly. “Maybe we should have put this one away earlier. My apologies, Mr Potter.”

He cannot even be surprised that she already knows his name. If Malfoy was telling the truth and the whole Wizarding World is talking about how he has lost his mind, then his reaction just now would have confirmed it for her. An embarrassed blush on his cheeks, he mumbles, “No harm done. Thank you, Miss Lockwood.”

Expecting her to walk back to the till, he turns away, but she comes to stand next to him. “I would recommend this one,” she indicates to a green, leather bound book in the basket, “It has a few torn pages, hence why it is cheap, but is otherwise in good condition. I’ve read it myself and found it to be a stimulating read.”

Harry picks it up cautiously, checking subtly for any dodgy markings. However, he is clearly not as conspicuous as he thought because Jenna snorts humorously. “Don’t worry, this one is clean. If you want, I can show you some other round th-” 

She never finishes her sentence, because in his peripheral vision, Harry catches the title of the book, _Loughfowl’s Guide to Navigating History_ , and the delight in his chest makes him soar. Loughfowl, as in the very same name Malfoy scribbled on the second sheet of paper. Harry had cast it to the side, thinking nothing of it and sparing it no second glance. But here it is- the puzzle piece that Harry didn’t mean to find. 

“I’ll buy it,” he says, perhaps a little too excitedly. Silky leather strokes his hand when he grabs it; maybe it is his imagination, but the book seems to shudder upon touching it.

“Oh!” She seems shocked, and Harry can tell that she is used to rejection, “Brilliant! Come right this way, sir.”

Luckily, Harry has no homework for the evening. This means he can settle down into his bed with the book, or seek a notably worn armchair in the common room. Although, an urge to find Malfoy is beginning to outweigh the urgency of reading, oddly enough. He snorts- these are both two things he never thought he would be struggling to choose between, but this year seems to drag the word unexpected to another dimension. He hasn’t been able to shake Malfoy’s parting words from his mind, and so he needs to hear something else from the boy to make them go away. Something less cold or, if not that, at least some deadly insult that will stop Harry from hearing that unfeeling tone- _I hate you_ \- in his head at night. 

He pays for his book and tips generously. Perpetually on time, Hermione meets him at the door, apparently having paid for her own bloody mini-library at another till in the shop. She has at least four bags full, but when Harry questions the need for such a copious amount, the bloodthirsty hint in her eyes makes him drop the subject.

When they find Ron outside Zonkos, they are greeted with quite the spectacle. They can tell that something is wrong from the get-go, because his best mate seems to be whimpering. Upon realisation, Hermione slaps her hand over her mouth, and it only takes Harry a couple of beats to follow. A picture of total despair, Ron is slouched on the bench with his head in his hand. All around him lies locks of ginger.

“Ron…” Harry says, trying to stifle a snigger.

Ron looks up dejectedly, “It happened, Harry. The old bugger must have done something.”

“It can’t be that bad,” offers Hermione, but as she says it, a pained snort escapes her. She and Harry glance at each other and he sees tears of laughter forming in her eyes. 

Slowly taking off his hat, his blue eyes darting around to see who is watching, Ron reveals his very shiny, and very, very bald head. 

Unable to contain it any longer, Harry yields to the belly laughter that has been brewing in him ever since they caught sight of Ron, and Hermione joins in, falling into his side.

Indignant, Ron storms off, the loose strands of hair on his body forming a trail behind him. The sun shines down at them, seemingly chuckling too, and his freckled scalp gleams as the rays hit him. Harry didn’t think it possible, but he and Hermione laugh even harder at this, bending over to catch their breath. 

Ron shoots them the finger. He doesn’t blame him. Poor Ron. They run after him amusedly, kicking the newly laid ginger path as they go.

\-------

Back in the castle, Ron races to his dormitory in shame. There are some spikey prickles on his head that indicate it is growing back already, so it won’t be long until whatever trick the man at the bar pulled is reversed. Hermione’s leading theory is that Bar-Man slipped something into his drink whilst he wasn’t paying attention. It is absolutely hilarious, of course- though not to Ron. Ginny almost fainted from laughter when she saw him. 

In all the commotion, Harry still doesn’t forget what his goal for the evening is. He heads to his room and contemplates getting his Marauders Map out. Ever since being back, he has been reluctant to use it. It almost feels creepy now, whereas before he just saw it as an obligatory, saving-the-world kind of thing. Hence, why he is currently considering using it again. This could be important. 

He pointedly ignores the fact that he doesn’t even plan to interrogate Malfoy tonight, and rather, just itches to speak to- or _spar_ with- him.

Collecting the map from where it was, tucked under his broomstick, Harry imagines himself flicking away these pesky thoughts. Logic has never been his friend. He doesn’t care for it.

In all of twenty seconds, Harry finds Malfoy’s name. 

He whips out some forgettable excuse for Justin and Tony, who don’t seem to believe him, or care. Passing through the common room, he can hear Blaise Zabini taking the piss out of Ron in their dormitory and he grins, hoping that Ron’s ego can take it. If it ends in bloodshed, Harry will have to be the one to take him to the Hospital Wing. And he doesn’t relish that idea, thinking about Ron’s grumpy mood, justified but exhausting none the same.

As he travels through his newfound passages, he wonders why Malfoy is in the Astronomy Tower of all places. These days, it pretty much has no function. Mcgonagall decided that lessons there wouldn’t continue, out of respect for Dumbledore. There are plenty of other towers available in the castle anyway, ones which don’t have associations with murdered headmasters. Formally, you can go up there upon request. However, it has become, despite Mcgonagall’s efforts to keep it bordered off, Hogwarts’s newest snogging spot.

Harry’s eyes widen and he prays that that isn’t why Malfoy is there. Could it be that the reason Malfoy hasn’t returned to their dormitory is because he has found romance? The thought makes him sick and he resolutely decides it is his duty to tell them to piss off, if this is the case. Would _Malfoy_ , of all people, really want to make out with someone at the Astronomy Tower though? The place has as much history for him as it does Harry. _Maybe he gets off on it,_ Harry’s subconscious adds, and he grimaces, feeling inexplicably uncomfortable.

When he reaches the tower, he realises that he has absolutely no idea what he is going to say whether Malfoy is snogging someone or not. In his best case scenario, Malfoy has already left and spared him the dilemma. In the worst, he will be alone, and Harry has already established he doesn’t know how to handle Malfoy by himself. Either way, he is fucked, and now he is just stuck on the steps wondering why in the world he thought this was a good idea. 

After a couple of minutes of standing there like a plonker, he braces himself and heads up the spiralling staircase. He hates it here, he does, but dispels the memories that almost come flooding back by quickening his climb. The wind blasts him with her icy breath as he emerges from the top.

Malfoy is alone. To his confusion, he is relieved. And surprised- though he shouldn’t be, considering alone is the boy’s usual state.

He sits unassumingly, knees drawn up against himself and eyes closed. If it weren’t for his irregular breathing, Harry would think him asleep. Thanks to the wind, his hair is in complete disarray, whipping madly at his high cheekbones. Harry almost feels guilty for disturbing him.

“Uh, Hello,” he says. It is so quiet he is afraid he may have to repeat himself, but Malfoy breathes deeply and Harry knows he heard him. 

When Malfoy opens his eyes, there is a softness to him that Harry has never once seen before. He suddenly finds it difficult to picture Malfoy being up to any evil deeds. To put it simply, he isn’t sure there is enough fight left in the other boy. 

“Hi, Potter,” he replies breezily. He sounds unsurprised to see Harry. It is nothing like his venomous words of the other day.

“It’s quite windy up here,” he says, hoping Malfoy might provide an explanation but not feeling like demanding it. A violent gust makes his robes billow outwards, and he wobbles. Still quite unsure whether Malfoy will bite his head off, he tests the waters by moving to sit down opposite. There is no reaction, so he deems it safe and plonks himself down ungracefully.

“Great observation, Potter,” Malfoy drones, “So why are you here and not tucked up in bed?” He throws out the question that Harry had wanted to ask back at him before Harry himself has the chance to ask it. Noticing the tinge of pride in his angular features, he thinks that it was intentional. 

“Not sure yet,” Harry lies and tries for humour, “Nostalgia?” 

Malfoy huffs in amusement. The response is hardly anything, but it is human, and he hadn’t realised how much he thought of the other boy as a robot until now. It is oddly comforting.

“Nostalgia? Really, Potter?” he says disbelievingly, shaking his head the tiniest amount,“You think that’s funny?”

“A little,” Harry admits; Malfoy’s lips curl upwards so slightly that you could blink and miss it.

They don’t speak for a few minutes and he almost drifts off to sleep. Beyond him, the mountainous landscape is shrouded in dark clouds, and it is wonderfully moody. He had always thought of the wind as an agent of chaos, unpredictable and vicious. Now, he finds it soothing to be blown about. If only he had a tea, then he would be truly peaceful. Oh, and if the Slytherin across from him went away. Having your longtime rival join your midnight brooding is never the greatest source of relaxation. And yet, absurdly, he is- relaxed, that is. He thinks about how proud Dumbledore would be to see him not throttling Malfoy at the nearest opportunity, and isn’t sure whether that makes him want to do it more or less.

“I wish I had a tea right now,” he says to break the stillness. Immediately, he wishes he could take it back and continue on in civil silence. Another length of time passes, the wind beats down on them harder, and Harry accepts that he isn’t getting a response. 

“I’d like a tea,” admits Malfoy when Harry doesn’t expect it, pulling his legs tighter into himself, “Maybe an Earl Grey, or Jasmine.” The way he says it, it sounds like a confession. With how different Malfoy is acting from the last time they spoke, Harry is almost getting whiplash.

“You’re being unusually not, uh, like yourself tonight,” comments Harry and tries not to make it sound like an accusation. That isn’t why he came here.

Malfoy frowns a bit and the smallest sneer appears, like a reflex. “And what am I usually like?”

“A dickhead,” says Harry, not bothering to beat around the bush. After all, why would he for someone who supposedly _hates_ him? 

At that, Malfoy snorts involuntarily and then tries to redeem himself by playing it off like more of a scoff. It doesn’t work. He ducks his head and Harry sort of feels bad for embarrassing him. 

“I’m just tired, Potter,” he says eventually from between his knees, as if that explains everything. Somehow, it does. Harry’s chest aches with the honesty of the statement. The least he can do is return it.

“Me too,” he offers.

The stairs creak and the mirage is shattered. It is like a switch has been flicked when Malfoy’s head whips around, clearly nervous, checking whether anyone has caught them in the act. And by _the act_ , Harry means talking. A direct contrast to the last fifteen minutes, Malfoy seems to decide that he has had enough of Harry’s company and scrambles to his feet. So jarring is the manner in which he does it, Harry begins to question whether he just made this whole exchange up. Malfoy straightens himself out and is striding towards the stairs when Harry calls out, unable to let this last point in his mind go.

“Wait! Malfoy!”

Blatantly agitated, Malfoy spins back around, skinny frame fidgeting from side to side. He looks at Harry irritatedly, but he stops, and that is enough. 

“What?” He holds Harry in contempt when he says it.

Suddenly wary that Malfoy could run off, and they would never speak again, Harry says all in a rush, “Don’t move dorms. I won’t bother you anymore.” 

This seems to startle him, some of the stiffness diminishes from his body. His lips are tightly pressed together and Harry thinks he might be chewing them. Harry himself is so tense he could snap in two halves, and he shakes his foot back and forth in distress. An idiot, that is what he is. Everything he has said this evening has been an embarrassment, but it would be the cherry on top for his offer of civility to be snubbed by _Malfoy_. When did it all get so backwards? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? He doesn’t know anymore, but he thinks that maybe Malfoy is supposed to be working a little harder for forgiveness.

Though, when it comes down to it, he realises that he doesn’t give a damn about what they are _supposed_ to be doing. The rest of Wizarding society would have Harry send Malfoy to jail if they got their way. They would stick him and Ginny in a house with a white picket fence, and at least one child on the way. He would also be in Auror training already, and though it felt like the best plan in the summer, before Kingsley passed the law that said they had to get their NEWTs first, he now can’t fathom anything worse. 

It must be centuries before his answer comes. After all his deliberating, the only thing Malfoy says is, “Do you promise? That you won’t bother me?” 

Harry wants to shout at the top of his lungs that he would rather Malfoy bully him all year long than be ignored. He would bet his life that that would have him running for the hills, however. “Yeah, I promise,” he says solemnly, but the falsity is dripping from each word. _I’m lying and I’m sorry_. He thinks Malfoy knows that too. 

“Okay then,” he whispers, looking at Harry like he can see all the way through him, right down to his thundering heartbeat. Then, he hurries down the steps, out of Harry’s sight.

Falling onto his back, Harry watches the ceiling for a while, with its arching beams and dirty stone, searching for any signs of life. Instead, a part of the left wall crumbles and bounces on the floor, only about two metres away from his hands. The breeze skids across him when he is lying like this, a gushing river of air. He wraps his robes around himself, teeth chattering and fingertips numb. It isn’t peaceful at all, and he isn’t sure why he ever thought it so. Therefore, he musters up all the energy he can find and rolls forward onto his knees first. His mind is so exhausted, his body an ever sorrier state.

On his way back to his dormitory, he spots Luna and Ginny heading up to the tower, giggling and intertwined in more ways than one. He groans, fed-up by this point and runs quicker. Crossing his fingers, he sends several prayers to the Fates that they hadn’t spotted him leaving it. Merlin, he would never hear the end of it from Ginny if she thought he was seeing someone. He repeats the action for good measure.

Accidentally, he stumbles right into the Fat Friar when turning a sharp corner, and he spends the rest of the journey feeling like he just came from a snowstorm. The sensation is extremely unpleasant, and he finds himself shivering at every opportunity when he remembers hitting that large, cold belly. 

It is only when he sees Malfoy’s curtains closed for the first time in weeks upon entering the dormitory, that he feels a warm flower unfold in him and the residual chill begins to melt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you read that all, i hope you enjoyed it!! i certainly liked writing it. it was a fat boy (10k) and took a long time but hopefully it paid off xx love u all, and feel free to chat to me in the comments. as always, kudos, shares, and comments are massively appreciated <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hiiii ok so harry speaks to mcgonagall.... has a moment with justin.... has more draco moments..... you'll have to read i guess ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right so i feel like half of you will hate something that happens in this chapter and half of you will (hopefully) like it.... i will elaborate at the end!!! anyways who is proud of me for updating.. i am xoxo read at the end for more of my thoughts <3 ALSO TRIGGER WARNING FOR DESCRIPTION OF VOMIT IN THIS CHAPTER :) btw if you're reading this just after i upload i am so sorry because it will defo have so many errors that i can't be bothered to fix until tomorrow because it is 4am

The next day finds Harry in Mcgonagall’s office. He had completely forgotten during the events of the previous day, but each Eighth year student has been called for a meeting, relating to careers and their dreadful ‘future prospects’. During the walk to breakfast, Ron, whose hair has nearly all grown back, was so nervous for his own that he began referring to Fred in the present tense. He had drawn back from the group upon realisation, clearly distraught by his own mistake. Hermione and Harry had been unsure what to do but were about to intervene nonetheless, when a whirlwind of red spared them the effort. Squeezing his shoulders and ruffling his hair, as if Ron were the younger sibling, Ginny managed to pep him back up. 

From the moment Hermione reminded him of the scheduled appointment this morning, for he would have forgotten otherwise, Harry has had a rather substantial ache brewing right behind his brows. It pickaxes at his head, digging into his skull with sharp jabs that make him visibly wince.

It happens now. Mcgonagall narrows her eyes, and the slight raise in her eyebrows tells Harry she doesn’t deem his display particularly impressive. 

The office is not much different than when it belonged to Dumbledore; the mismatched collections of objects scattered around the room feel almost like an homage to his eccentricity. A well-used, bobbly pair of socks on the armchair by the tallest window, a curation of ivory coloured shells which stir up the stinging smell of seasalt and whisper to you with the sound of waves everytime you pass by, dotted along the top of the bookcase. There is even a Muggle yoga book sitting atop a table. In the madness, however, he finds a method. A neatness in the placements which is so distinctively un-Dumbledore that Harry instantly knows Mcgonagall has strategically placed each individual item, probably trying her best to recreate what cannot be recreated. The image is so honest, so blue, that Harry suddenly wants to hug her, recognising her own grief in himself. He feels it too when he flicks through all of Sirius’s old motorbike magazines, grasping at the pretense that he understands his godfather. A man that he never honestly knew. 

He looks at the Headmistress and she catches his eye; a silent exchange passes between them. Then, she sits straight and clasps her hands together- an indication that she is over it, wants to get down to business. At least one of them is. 

“So, Mr. Potter, I gather it is still your intention to enter Auror training after this academic year?” She asks with a sip of her tea. Her emerald green robes fall with authority as she lifts her arm, china cup in hand.

Despite being aware that the subject of the meeting is about his employment prospects, Harry still tenses up at the question. Until this very second, he had somehow still clung onto a feeble hope that some crisis might avert the necessity of the session. The stabbing sensations in his brain seem to halt in favour of a throbbing and unrelenting freeze, like he has iced over. 

His future. It is such an unfamiliar thing, so estranged. He supposes that, in all honesty, he didn’t expect to have one up until a few months prior. And even afterwards, in the gloom of Grimmauld Place, most days he still felt like he was a second from withering away. Now, Harry isn’t yet sure whether he actually exists. How can somebody not present have a future?

Before the war, he would have answered Mcgonagall “Yes” with absolute certainty, though debatably that was purely from a lack of other options. He had had a drive in him then, a drastic need to prove himself the saviour everyone assumed, demanded him to be. Because, although he had liked to pretend he wasn’t special, there was a _special_ pressure. Pressure so great that Harry hadn’t even been aware he was suffocating under it until it was lifted from him, and he suddenly felt like he would drift off if nobody tied him down. The weight pushed him forward, into rash decisions and reckless behaviour. If he hadn’t gone ahead, he would have gone down.

Where does that leave him now though, when the only urgency he feels is one to climb into bed? Which direction does he take when he can’t see past the end of the day?

Mcgonagall takes another patient sip and Harry feels embarrassed at his slowness. A cuckoo clock, which must be a new addition for he has never noticed it before, alerts the hour. In the silence of the room, every chime feels like a hammer in the icy fabric that has settled over him. He really wants to throw an object, preferably heavy, at the damn wooden bird, just to get it to stop laughing at him.

“I’m not really sure, Professor,” he admits, avoiding her gaze and instead staring at the trim white quill on her desk. It isn’t a full confession, but it is all he can say without risking a panic attack. On the other hand, the idea of lying, of just going along with the Dark-Wizard-Fighting-Auror that the Wizarding world expects of him, leaves a sick and dirty taste in his mouth. 

At this, Mcgonagall doesn’t appear to be surprised by any means. She simply nods and sets her drink down on the saucer in front of her with a measured _clink_. It is covered in painted Phoenixes of all different shades, and they swoop around with as much grace as possible for a crockery decoration. One, a rich and wine-like merlot, rests on the crevice between the handle and the cup and seems to look up at the elderly witch, awaiting her response. It flaps its wings agitatedly; Harry understands.

“I cannot say I am all together shocked,” she says with a slightly disheartened expression on her face, like his lack of enthusiasm for a job (which is ultimately half-violence and half paperwork) has disappointed her. This is exactly what he was afraid of. His heart sinks, and he realises with sovereign pain that the pressure of being Harry Potter is still there. When he says it in full like that, there’s a disconnect. _Harry Potter_ would never be sitting here with sixth-day hair and fresh stains on his jeans from where he spilt his cup of tea upon being handed it by Mcgonagall. His hands had been trembling as he accepted the delicate ceramic. Or maybe he would. Harry has never been very skilled at knowing himself. 

There are several beats as neither of them say anything. Despite the silence, Harry can tell Mcgonagall hasn’t finished. She is purely giving him the opportunity to mull over the situation. He can tell by the twinkle behind her silver spectacles. 

“Do you have any alternative choices in mind?” she asks after a while. 

Relief floods through him when she doesn’t demand any explanations. He isn’t sure how well she would take his newfound distaste for the Ministry and their often questionable practises. The Headmistress is a progressive woman, but he doesn’t want to risk offending her. And if he were to mention his own resident phantoms, the fact that they never leave his side, tailing him at all hours of the day, she would in all likelihood refer to him to St. Mungos immediately. Auror work doesn’t sound as appealing when the possibility of crumpling to the ground at any minor sign of distress is more feasible than a smooth run of the mission.

As Mcgonagall pours herself another tea and helps herself to a buttery shortbread, Harry racks his brain for something he could offer up which would give her some bloody faith in him. Unfortunately, during school he didn’t have many opportunities to develop any hobbies and interests, unlike most of his peers- another thing he can blame Voldemort for. Who knows? Had he been given the time and space, perhaps he could have become a dragon-trainer like Charlie, mysterious and rogue, or an astute curse-breaker like Bill. Merlin, he could have even gone wild and passionately launched himself into the field of toad-breeding. Hagrid would have been overjoyed, but he will never know. 

In the end, he says none of this. “Not that I can think of,” Harry responds, downtrodden. Anxiously, he jounces his leg. The quill rattles in its pot, and he realises that the entire desk is shaking along with him. 

Mcgonagall sighs into her tea; the Phoenixes scatter in opposite directions as her breath hits the surface. She huffs with amusement and strokes one with her fingertip, coaxing it out from the underside. As it moves, Harry spots an inscription in a loopy, flamboyant font which had escaped his notice until now. 

It reads, _‘Minerva, I leave to you my closest companions. Love, Albus.”_

“Harry,” she starts, and the use of his first name shakes him from his somber thoughts, “I know I don’t need to remind you how many options are open to you, but it is worth remembering. Frankly, I’m certain that you could do whatever you so desire. Many people would give a lot to be in the very same position,” and Malfoy, on probation, largely in part to Harry’s testimony, springs to his mind at that. Harry knows it would be smart to take advantage of his good fortune, but truthfully he just wishes he didn’t have any leverage. Because, with it comes jealousy, and therefore, attention; after all that, expectation. Mcgonagall smiles at him with a sad sort of pity in her eyes, “Do you truly have nothing in mind?”

“Not really, Professor. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, ashamed. Everyone else in his year seems to have a plan A, B, C and D- all the way up until Z. He awaits her scorn.

But Mcgonagall says, “No, Harry. _I’m_ sorry,” surprising him. “As your head of house, I cannot help but feel like I-” she halts and glances at Dumbledore’s message, “Like _we_ have failed you slightly.”

Harry is confused and agreeable all at once. 

“Professor?” he questions.

“Too much weight was placed upon you, yes, but also upon all of us. It made us forget that you are only a teenager, like every other student at this school. For that, I feel I must apologise. We should’ve done better,” Mcgonagall says solemnly. The atmosphere of the room has dampened even further, like someone has wrapped the room in a wet blanket, and Harry cannot stand it. 

Lest allowing the thaw over his mind to creep to any other areas of his body, he cracks a grin and jokes, “Well, thanks, but you know I’m not technically a teenager anymore, Professor.” As quickly as snapping a biscuit, the tension breaks. As it happens, the saying ‘fake it til you make it’ works after all.

Mcgonagall chuckles, condescending in the way that older people inevitably are when someone young dares to feign maturity. Harry isn’t offended. He feels the same when, for example, he sees a third year boy trying to impress a girl with whatever prepubescent muscle he can find. It’s second hand embarrassment, mixed with a tinge of superiority- not that anybody would admit that out loud.

“I suppose not, Mr. Potter. And are you not at all interested in pursuing a career in Quidditch? I can think of several teams who would be eager to sign you on,” Mcgonagall says earnestly. Harry’s heart aches. Here’s the thing: Quidditch will always have a place in his life, for how could it not? Being his release of tension for such a long time means that he is bound by duty, and at the very least, nostalgia, to love the game. But in the way that one unwillingly outgrows their favourite childhood jumper, he feels like the version of him who would have thrived in that type of competitive limelight died in the Forest, was left behind as Harry boarded the train in the Kings Cross Purgatory. 

He imagines the clicking of cameras as the team dismantles their brooms, the roaring of the crowds, like Fiendfyre. All around him are hundreds of hands and arms, grabbing for a piece of him, just so they can say that they have touched Harry Potter. He would practically be offering himself up on a platter, a fat suckling pig ready for the taking.

 _No, no- definitely not._ He shudders.

“Not particularly, Professor,” says Harry, hoping she won’t ask more. Of course, this time she does.

“Are you quite sure? You have always had an aptitude for the sport, though I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this. Madam Hooch will be gravely disappointed, I think she has been holding out hope that you could be her next big star,” she says and Harry thinks, _Get in line_. “Forgive me, Potter, for being so bold, but I am curious. Is there any particular reason that you no longer have your eyes set on being an Auror?”

It’s the question he has been dreading. The flutter in his stomach stops, but only to be replaced by it welling up, growing unbearably until it is close to bursting inside of him. Mentally, he has been begging her not to voice whatever queries she obviously has, and all this time his prayers have been answered. Then, he hears Hermione’s reprimanding tone in his mind, _“Honestly, Harry. It’s only a harmless question,”_ and she is right. He has fought much worse, from people miles more ill-intending than Minerva Mcgonagall. 

“It’s complicated,” says Harry, as minimally as possible. However, his mouth betrays him, continuing to move on a motor, even in spite of his will for the opposite. “I suppose I’m just not really right for it anymore, Professor.” He hasn’t said much, if anything at all. The fear that it is still too revealing is loud. The idea that Mcgonagall, the reliable and steady woman that she is- has always been- could come to be disconcerted by him- _well_... it leaves Harry petrified.

She nods, grudgingly accepting his point, but says with integrity, “Someone like you, Potter, would be invaluable to the Ministry. I can’t think of anyone more fitting for the job. If I'm honest, I am more than a little baffled at your decision.”

Harry shakes his head in disbelief, “Professor, I would respectfully argue that there are probably a million other people better suited to being an Auror before me. You know as well as I do that me and paperwork would be a bad idea.” _Me and fieldwork would be a bad idea, too._

He has heard the tales of bloody victims, violent criminals and deafening screams which leave you with a ringing in your ears for weeks afterwards. 

Frowning, Mcgonagall responds, “I have to disagree, but of course we will support whatever decision you make. Have a think, and we will reconvene soon.” Her teacup is empty now, and Harry’s own pasty brew has gone stone cold. He feels a little guilty that he didn’t drink it; the ratio of milk to water was just far too high for him to tolerate. 

“I will, Professor. Thank you,” says Harry politely. As soon as the last letter leaves his lips, he runs out of the office, faster than he knew he was even capable of.

\-----

The evening finds him in the library. Despite his intentions the day before, he is yet to even open the book he bought in Hogsmeade. After last night, after Malfoy, he has been left feeling a little wary. When his hard edges are wiped away, it is difficult to see Malfoy as the villain that Harry’s instinct tells him he is. There is a disconnect between the snarky, silent boy who has been sneaking around with suspicion written all over him, and the one last night, who confessed to Harry his love of Jasmine tea in whispered tones. Needless to say, it is much easier on his soul to envision the former, and this is what shakes him of his guilty conscience. 

He is burrowed away in a nook between the streets of bookshelves, one of those spots which people tend to overlook. It is warmly lit by a candle, and almost silent. He is mainly there, however, because he is sure Ron and Hermione would miss him if they were to walk past. They were in an especially overbearing mood at dinner, cuddling over their plates of Shepard Pie. He knows that they have just booked their holiday for the half term break, so he cuts them a bit of slack, no matter how bitter the loneliness tastes. Besides, his hiding is primarily due to him not wanting to explain why he is reading a piece of academia by choice. Ron would be baffled, Hermione demanding. 

Veiled in soft green leather, the book is, at first glance, an unimpressive thing. He hopes that the contents prove the appearance wrong. The persistent need to know what Draco Mafoy is up to never seems to disappear, though Harry had hoped it would. Maybe some information in here will provide him with some peace of mind. Anything to stop him feeling so wrongfully interested.

He turns the cover and reads the small description on the front page.

 _‘In all my years on this Earth, I have never struggled with an issue quite like I did when I experienced the shock of adulthood. It always felt so far off, a distant thing that could never conceivably happen to_ me _, until suddenly it did- all too quickly. When I left Hogwarts in 1976, I didn’t have a clue which cereal I would be eating the following morning, let alone what my future entailed. Now, I am not claiming to be any great writer, but I thought perhaps it would be beneficial to at least one person if I detailed my own journey. What is the best thing to do if you are lost in a big city? Retrace your steps, and so that is what I did.’_

_Loughfowl’s Guide to Navigating History is the tale of how Martin Loughfowl rewrote his own story. Centuries after his legendary relative Edmund Loughfowl died, Martin forms a connection with his past to help with his future._

Harry is disconcerted by how eerily similar the author’s words are to what he was thinking in Mcgonagall’s office earlier. If this is the universe’s way of telling him to get a grip, he doesn’t find it very funny. He frowns and thumbs the thin paper, contemplating saving this research for later. The words ring in his head. Triggering another premature midlife crisis is the last thing he wants to do at this moment in time.

Unfairly, he feels a bit peeved- the words have dragged up what he is trying to bury under the hatchet. Like he has been done a grave injustice, Harry slams the book shut and shoves it back in his bag. He will read it another time. Who knows? It might not even be the same Loughfowl that Malfoy was writing about in the first place, and then he will just be wasting his own time like a fool- precious time, which could be spent brooding in his bed instead. Important things, of course.

When he returns to his dorm room, the corridor is filled with sounds of abrasive shouting. It rocks him, destroying the plan for a peaceful, crisis-free evening that he had laid out for himself on the route back from the library. Someone remind him why he came back to Hogwarts again?

At first, he is concerned that Malfoy has gotten himself into some sort of trouble again. Since the time outside Harry’s Defence lesson, there haven’t been any more public attacks on him, but Harry has frequently been worried that they may have turned private. Even more disturbing, is the fact that Malfoy is legally bound not to defend himself on the grounds of his probation. He is a free punching bag. And though everyone else seems to have forgotten this fact, the knowledge that the boys were never identified concerns Harry greatly. His gut says they are a real danger, that maybe this is linked to whatever Malfoy is up to.

Or he is just delusional.

He hurries forwards, hand already reaching for the length of his wand. The thought that someone could be delivering their twisted version of justice, that he is too late and another life is lost, makes him move frantically. In all his haste, he trips over the small bump that separates the room from the corridor, and the door swings open as he stumbles onto it. 

Falling into their room, the first thing he notices is that Malfoy is not there. He allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief, and revels in this feeling, pushing the humiliation at being so dramatic to the backseat. 

Once his heart stops pounding, he turns towards the actual source of the noise: Justin, with a furious scowl on his face and his phone up to his ear. He has never seen his roommate look anything less than happy, unless you count the pitiful stares he is prone to shooting Harry. It is an odd expression on him. Usually, he would admit that Justin is a handsome guy but his features have distorted so much that it changes his appearance entirely. In a way, he is the anti-Malfoy. It shocked Harry to see the git _smile_.

“Are you actually being serious? Surely you must be taking the piss!” yells Justin, not paying any mind to Harry’s obscure arrival.

Whoever is on the other end of the line seems to respond with the same volume, if the tinny noise coming from the phone is any indication. Justin stands up and throws his hands in the air exasperatedly.

“Elliot!” _Oh. The boyfriend_. “What the fuck? So now suddenly it is an issue? You piece of shit, it’s who I am! You think I wouldn’t change it if I could?”

He catches Harry’s eyes then, and a few lone tears begin to fall. Feeling like he has massively intruded and recognising that nobody- _Malfoy_ \- is in imminent peril, Harry backs towards the door, but is stopped by Justin’s clammy hand. He shakes his head, a plea in his face asking for Harry to stay. Hence, he sits down on his own bed and slips his shoes off.

Justin makes a sudden whiney noise at something Elliot says, and wipes vigorously at his eyes. He looks around in disbelief and snarls at the phone. Then, in an instant, his demeanour snaps from an all-consuming rage to a cold nothing. “Right then,” he says, chillingly calm, “Is that it?”

 _Am I witnessing a break up?_ Harry wonders in shock. He has not a single fucking clue what he will say if he is. When he scans his memory, he can’t recall ever having to deal with this before. Like all couples, Ron and Hermione have had a few tiffs, but never anything as significant as an actual break-up. Of course there was him and Ginny, but even Harry, for all his inadequacy at romance, knows it wouldn’t be smart to use how he handled that as any sort of example. 

A low buzz sounds through the room as Elliot hangs up.

“We broke up,” says Justin. 

“Oh...shit,” replies Harry, at a loss for words. _Shit_

“Yeah.”

He shuffles awkwardly on his feet as he clambers for something comforting to say. Nothing comes, so he asks what he really wants to know, “How come?”

Sighing, Justin places himself down on Harry’s bed, on his right side. There is no answer and Harry curses himself for being so blunt. Fate doesn’t exist, he concludes. He knows this because, if there was, surely Anthony would have walked through that door instead of Harry. And he would have done it a whole lot more stylishly and suave than Harry ever could. Justin runs a hand through his auburn hair, but his ring gets caught. It is made up of two simple silver bands, interlocking with each other in an embrace. Harry has often thought of rings as being garish things, overly expensive for what they are: just a few rocks that some guy baselessly deemed prettier than the other rocks, and metal. Observing this one though, he considers maybe he has been searching for beauty in the wrong places.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” says Justin, noticing Harry’s eyeline, and detaching the ring from his hair “Elliot got it for me for my birthday earlier this year. Called it a promise ring, said that we would replace it with ‘the real thing’ in a couple of years.”

He scoffs angrily, just once, and then goes silent. Harry, suddenly terrified that he might burst into tears, searches for something to comfort him with, “It’s pretty, but you could do better.” 

Justin turns to face him then, plump lips smiling sadly. His features are no longer screwed up in enraged pain, but with anguish. It’s different, but it is a mighty pain nonetheless. There is something sparkling in his brown eyes, but this time it isn’t pity. “You think so?”

“For sure, I would’ve asked for at least three bands,” Harry says, light-heartedly, and he receives a laugh in response. It is a bit too melancholy to be a complete victory, but he allows himself to feel the slightest bit chuffed for managing to put the tears on hold, at least. Then, he looks at Justin’s trembling lips and a wave of guilt envelops him for being happy at someone else's grief. 

“It’s funny you say that,” Justin says, and Harry guesses that it is not going to be funny at all. “It is actually a Russian wedding ring. He bought it when he went out to Moscow with his family in April.” At Harry’s dumbfounded expression, he says rapidly, “Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean we’re married or anything. It was just a stupid sentiment about the future. Our future. Whatever. Anyways, apparently in Russia, the lucky number of bands to receive is three. There are loads of different symbolisms behind it, but basically each one is supposed to represent something. Traditionally, it was the Father, the son, and the Holy spirit, but these days, non-religious folks prefer friendship, love and fidelity. Or the past, present, and future.” He twiddles at the two bands, pushing them over each other so they roll up his finger and off. For a moment, they just sit in his palm and Harry frowns. Placing the piece on the bed, he becomes even more maudlin. “So, I guess the fact that I got only two...well, it speaks for itself, doesn’t it? I’m unlucky.”

Harry is mildly horrified at such a depressing statement, but he also wants to laugh. It is typical of people head over heels in love to focus on the small weed in a field of flowers. For Justin to get so wound up about such pedantic things, like the number of bands, means that he misses the bigger picture: he has been given a fucking wedding ring. Even if it weren’t intended for marriage, it should tell Justin all he needs to know about luck and love. 

He says so- less elegantly than he wishes, but he thinks his point comes across. Some of the tension in Justin’s brow eases and he smiles again at Harry. His eyelashes are very thick, framing his eyes darkly. 

“You’re right,” he says defeatedly, and he stands up as if he were about to leave. “I’m being ungrateful, Elliot always says I am. I must be annoying you greatly.”

“Not ungrateful, no!” Harry desperately rushes to clarify, not eager to cause Justin any more distress. Without thinking, he grabs Justin’s hand, causing the boy’s eyebrows to raise, and pulls him back down next to him. His hand is warm, fingers knobbly, and Harry drops it, embarrassed. “That isn’t what I meant. I just meant to say...things might not be as bad as they seem. Nobody gives someone a wedding ring without caring for them first. I don’t think.” 

_What the fuck am I doing? I am completely unqualified to give relationship advice,_ he thinks manically.

He wonders briefly whether him and Ginny would have ever gotten married. A fleeting vision of a stately country home, blooming with flowers gifted by Arthur and Molly, Harry’s Ministry briefcase by the door where he can pick it up easily on his way out. Two, maybe three kids stampeding through the house; they are most likely ginger. Nothing seems strong enough to be able to flush the Weasley genes out, not even the infamous Potter hair. A white picket fence, all seemingly lovely. Happiness. Laughter. But, then, Harry is depressed, his flashbacks leave him screaming all through the night. Ginny is fed up- with him, with being stuck at home, with everything. She wants to fly, to tour the world with a Quidditch team and work hard but play harder. Arguments. Divorce. Tears. 

It would have never worked.

“You could be right, Harry, but I don’t think things will ever be the same between us again,” says Justin morosely. 

“Why do you say that?” asks Harry, undeniably curious.

“Because he said he could never be with someone like _me_ ,” Justin splutters on the last word, but continues on, flinching every now and then. “Because he said it made him feel dirty, keeping the secret from everyone he knows. Because he isn’t sure whether he can live with his family looking at him with disgust, no matter how hard they try to hide it.”

“God, Justin,” mutters Harry, for a lack of better things to say. 

Justin directs his lean body towards Harry and takes a deep breath. It seems to be too much too soon though, and he almost chokes. His hands are balled up in fists and they claw at his black cotton trousers nervously. On his part, Harry feels like he is frozen in place by the force of Justin’s emotions. He is bound by the magnitude of the other boy's dejection to stay put, stiffly perched on his unclean bed sheets.

“Everyone talks about how hard it is for Muggleborns in the Wizarding world, but nobody ever mentions what it is like once you get home!” he exclaims, both eyebrows and lips downturned in agony. Harry gets the feeling that Justin has been bottling this up for a while. “My family don’t understand me anymore. I’ve pretty much lost all of the friends I had as a child because they think I abandoned them, and I don’t blame them. What would you do if, say, Ron left one day and never told you why? If he only came back for a few weeks of the year, with no explanation, and then left again? I would be pissed. It’s a wonder Elliot stayed with me for this long, if I am being honest. It was only a matter of time.”

Having had enough of the self-deprecation, Harry places his hand on the taller boy’s arm and squeezes firmly, hoping it will make him listen. “I..uh..understand. It sucks for them, but it sucks for _you_ too.” Justin gives him a look that makes his insides squirm. “If he was the guy of your dreams, he would deal with it.”

And he doesn’t know how, or why, but the atmosphere shifts. It is only by a couple of centimetres, but Justin definitely moves closer. The air in the room has turned thick and oppressive; he begins to sweat a little, despite the Autumn chill. 

“Maybe he isn’t then. The guy of my dreams,” says Justin, and he is staring at Harry with intensity. Staining his skin are the drying tracks from where his tears fell, running all the way down to his rounded chin. There is a pink flush rising high on his cheeks, which Harry is sure matches his own. 

“Yeah, maybe not. You’ll find someone else,” says Harry, watching the colour grow stronger until it spreads across his nose too. He wonders if it feels warm; his fingers itch to find out. 

“You reckon?” asks Justin softly. His hair is dishevelled from where his rings got stuck, and it falls down his cheeks in waves which frame his heart-shaped face. 

Harry squirms and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Definitely,” he replies, not breaking eye contact.

He waits for Justin to say something else, to slap him playfully and move to his respective bed. Any second now, they will break apart and resume their evenings, business as usual. 

No such thing happens. Another inch closer. 

Harry’s heart is palpitating and a racing thrill runs through his stomach and lower. There is a smell swirling in his nostrils- something minty and fresh, and it’s not coming from him. He is flickering with tension, a smoldering flame. 

Another inch, or two. They are touching now, and Justin cradles Harry’s face, staring him straight in the eyes. Dryness causes Harry to lick his lips, feeling self-conscious and not wanting to be chapped. The action draws Justin’s attention away from his eyes and his gaze slips down. Harry shudders and leans in closer. His own lips are not as full as Justin’s, he realises. 

Justin’s breath is on his, hot and wet, and his hands move slowly around to the back of Harry’s neck. Each languid stroke of his thumb causes tingles to ripple from where was touched. Their lips are almost touching, just a whisper of air between them.

It’s about to happen, and Harry would have probably let it, if it weren’t for his sudden moment of realisation. He lurches back and Justin falters, hand hovering from where Harry’s neck had ripped out of it. A wave of nausea washes through him and he walks backwards into his chest of drawers. His mind is spinning and he is confused- so extremely confused. Justin is a man. That is not him.

“H-Harry-” stutters Justin, red in the face and flustered. His white shirt is crumbled and Harry realises that he must have been clinging onto it. _This can’t be happening_. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have, it’s just th-”

“It’s fine,” Harry interrupts, studiously looking at Malfoy’s bed instead. This makes him blush even harder for some god forsaken reason and suddenly, he needs air. He feels like he can’t breathe- every inhale is too big, yet somehow still too little. “I have to go. Sorry.”

He makes a quick escape, rushing for the door. If Justin says anything else, Harry doesn’t stick around to hear. 

The castle flashes before him as he runs. Stone walls and the bodies of students merge into one grey blur, unrecognisable. Someone calls at him as he dashes past but he doesn’t register it. It feels like hours before he stops, but when he physically does, his mind keeps going. It races forward, pulling at his head. He is in pieces; his legs and hands are shaking, and his mind is in a thousand different places at once. Uncle Vernon and every hateful comment he ever made is in all of them, however. He throws up.

It is almost cathartic. 

Once he is done, he feels marginally better, like he has purged himself of whatever sickness was inside of him. Then, he wants to shake himself, furious with his own internalised hatred. _It’s not a sickness._ He blames Dudley for every cruel remark he ever made about the boys who dared to dress femininely at school, and Petunia for allowing it. As much as she pretended to turn a blind eye, her silence was compliance. He blames Vernon for perpetuating it, with his foul mouth and resentful nature, turning down the invites to meet the husbands that moved in down the road. The letters stopped coming after a while, and Harry can only imagine the spiteful responses that they received. Finally, he blames every single coward who sided with them. Whether it were Dudley’s sidekicks, or Vernon’s blustering and warty work colleagues. All of them were bullies. It’s not a sickness, no, but it’s _not_ him. It can’t be.

He lifts his head a fraction, slowly becoming aware of where he has turned up. Absorbing his surroundings takes a while, because he has to close his eyes every few seconds to ease his headache. The puddle of vomit on the floorboards is what he sees first, and he grimaces at both the smell and the sight. Merlin, it is leaking through the cracks.

The next thing he recognises is an iron staircase only two metres from where he is now, leading down onto another floor below. He knows it all too well. 

Wind filtering through his hair and cooling his burning forehead is what confirms it. He is at the Astronomy Tower. 

“Delightful,” drawls an unexpected voice from behind him.

Paralysed in his spot, it takes him a few fatigued seconds of recognition, but when it comes to him, he thinks that maybe it isn’t so surprising after all.

“Malfoy?” he asks, though he doesn’t need to ask. It is- of course it is. 

He turns around to face him, somehow feeling alright about the situation. Distractions are welcome. Perhaps his legs knew where they were taking him, working where his mind couldn’t. Often, Harry wonders if his body has had to grow a new brain to make up for the fact that the original one has gone off the rails.

Malfoy is sitting more or less in the same spot as yesterday. He is wearing thick winter robes today, likely because of the overnight drop in temperature. Draping over him in a blatantly expensive fashion, they are thick enough that they don’t budge under the force of the wind. Though, it is far less gusty than it was at their previous rendezvous. As a result, his snowy hair has not been as chaotically whipped around. Harry finds that he wishes it was. 

“The one and only,” he says haughtily, staring at Harry with scrutinising judgement. His gaze flickers behind Harry, to the pool of bile on the planks, and his nose crinkles in disgust. Afraid it might cause him to be sick again, which would in turn elicit cruel teasing from Malfoy, Harry refuses to look at it. Instead, he just stares at the horizon. The moon is rising steadily over the mountains, her silver shadow beginning to cast over them. A creak of the floorboards causes Harry to look back at Malfoy, who is watching him with something indiscernible in his eyes. It makes Harry queasy all over again.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Enjoying the show?” he demands. Whether or not being snappy will cause his investigation into Malfoy to be sabotaged, Harry doesn’t know, but he glares back at him anyway, not in the mood to tolerate any of their habitual bullshit. His head feels like it is being pulverized in a grinder.

“Just wondering if you’re going to insist on following me up here every night, or if I can expect a peaceful evening tomorrow,” remarks Malfoy dryly. 

Assuredly the opposite effect to what he intended, this mitigates some of Harry’s edginess. It is belittling in the most delicious way. What does it say about him, that he feels at more home with this version of Malfoy- conceited and disdainful- than the quiet and complacent one of the last few weeks? He hopes that he has said his last farewell to that boy, the one with the evermore hollowing eyes and unresponsive expressions, though he knows that this is unlikely. The rest of Hogwarts wants Malfoy to fade into oblivion, and perhaps the git even wants the same. With the way he has been acting, it is all too probable. Everyone, but Harry, it seems. There is too much he still needs to know, needs to settle.

“It was an accident,” he replies, not making much sense and not caring to elaborate. This earns him a frown.

“You what?” asks Malfoy, and the way he says it is empty, lacking. There should be at least a smidge of confusion in his voice- any other person would be perplexed by Harry’s erratic behaviour, but if there is any genuine feeling there, it is buried far too deep to be seen. The scornful wrinkles between his brows, however, are harsh, and certainly have no qualms about hiding. They make him look eerily like his father.

“I didn’t mean to come here. I just...uh,” Harry fumbles for the right words, “ended up here, I guess. By chance.”

Malfoy blinks twice. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” grumbles Harry. Unjustifiably, he feels defensive. It is only a coincidence, it must be. He is positive that he didn’t come here on purpose. At least ninety percent certain, eighty if he is pushing it. Seventy.

“Alright, Potter,” Malfoy puts his slender hands in the air, “I believe you. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Not anticipating the comment, Harry snorts quietly. At this, Malfoy appears moderately shocked. He seems to forget his facade at times- it is increasingly inconsistent. Having to uphold such a stiff wall all the time must be tiring, it is natural he would slip sometimes, even in spite of being the natural cold bastard that he is. It’s either that, or Malfoy is half way to lunacy. With the way he flips between a blank state one second, to something resembling normalcy the next, it’s also a plausible explanation. Harry can understand it, at least- the switching on and off. You can be riding a gigantic tidal wave of anger, pain and loss, only to find yourself sliding along a bubbling stream in the next instance. 

Neither of them talk; Harry debates leaving. He is still standing, though fidgety is an understatement. Restlessly, he shifts his weight back and forth onto each leg, like each one contains a bomb which can’t be put down for too long, lest it explode. 

Leaving, however, means going back to the dorm- means Justin, means confronting something that he isn’t ready to think about even slightly. 

He goes to sit down. 

As he does so, a biting wind hits him and his legs wobble. He ungracefully falls back on his arse but manages to throw his hands out backwards to catch him in the nick of time. Hot in the face, he tries to recollect his dignity from shattering completely by straightening his back and clearing his throat. It only brings more attention to it.

“You’re joining me then?” says Malfoy with an arched eyebrow, distaste written all over him. He ignores the stumble, which simultaneously vexes Harry and leaves him pleasantly surprised. Idly, he wonders if he would ever get so desperate as to pay Malfoy to bully him. _One scathing insult, please. And make it extra cruel._

“Seems like it, yeah,” he says, shrugging off the humiliation. If Malfoy won’t comment on it, then neither will he. “Is that a problem?” 

For a moment, he convinces himself that Malfoy is about to say that it is, that he won’t stand for Harry’s company. Ever contrary, the boy just turns his lean figure to the view, so magnificently vast Harry feels like it must stretch out beyond our universe, and answers, “No.”

Harry smiles at nothing in particular. As it grows brighter with the arrival of the night, the moonshine alights Malfoy’s hair, making it glow. It is reminiscent of the silver light from the spell that Malfoy has been practising. Though it has been a few weeks since he saw it last, the memory is still fresh in his mind. After having read that small introduction to _Loughfowl’s Guide to Navigating History_ , Harry isn’t sure whether it is linked to anything, or if he is forming non-existent connections out of the madness of his mind. Merlin, maybe neither the spell, the potion, nor his silent demeanor have anything to do with each other. He feels as if he has dug himself into an abyss of which there is no way out, regardless of whether there is anything to discover in there or not. 

Then, Malfoy whips his head around and says bluntly, “If you are sick again, I’m leaving,” and Harry temporarily forgets all about secrets and mystery.

He laughs, “I won’t be.” _Another lie. I could be._

“Good.”

Harry keeps quiet, mostly from having nothing to contribute, and partly because his head is still spinning. Suddenly, as if he hasn’t spent the last month being as stoic as possible, Malfoy speaks again in the middle of the silence. “I won’t ask you if you are alright, Potter, so don’t expect me to.”

“Well that works for me, because I’m fine,” says Harry gruffly. 

Malfoy snorts and wraps his robes tighter around himself. They seem to swallow up his skinny frame, despite his considerable height. A clasp, detailed with the Malfoy family crest in opulent jewels of green and white, sits in the middle and ties the winter cloak together. “What a lie. You’re about as fine as Filch is attractive.”

Harry plays along, “That checks out then. Filch is...um... extremely hot.” His mouth feels dirty after saying it, and he scours the ground in case some water magically comes to him.

He thought that, in the worst case scenario, Malfoy would give him a blank, marble stare and leave. In the best, he would laugh, and potentially mock Harry. What he didn’t foresee was the undeniable anger in his voice.

“Potter, will you please do us all a favour and shut the fuck up?” Harry looks up at him in shock. His chapped lips are curled in irritation, and he spits every word like they have been revving up beforehand. Momentarily, the whirling in Harry’s head pauses. It is still with anticipation, frozen with the weight of the moment, and then it cheers again with vivacity when Malfoy continues. “You vomited all over the freshly varnished floorboards, and it lasted for at least a revolting two minutes. I would know because I counted, thus I conclude: you’re not fine. So stop lying.”

The last part hits him where he is vulnerable. Harry is constantly lying- to himself, to his friends, to Malfoy, and he doesn’t even know how it happens, or when. It just does, and he is the saboteur in this shitty cycle. 

Wonderfully stung by this venomous truth, Harry says, “I thought you didn’t care, Malfoy.”

This causes the boy to retreat into himself a little, taken aback by his own boldness. Harry should rescind his comment, but wouldn’t even if he could. It’s electric- not having to think about his reputation, or about sugar-coating his thoughts for others. 

“I don’t,” Malfoy replies, attempting to seem offhand. He crosses his arms over his lap, like a shield.

“Then why are you being such a prick about it?” says Harry bluntly.

Wind blows straight at Malfoy’s face, blasting back his hair and making him look rather erratic when he snarls, “Because it’s us, Potter!”

“You care,” Harry states, resigning himself to an early demise. He is bluffing; he doesn’t think Malfoy gives two shits about him, other than as much as one would be perturbed by stepping in a puddle. Harry is the puddle, if that weren’t clear. “At least a little bit.”

“Not in the slightest,” argues Malfoy, but he is losing steam.

“You do.” _He doesn’t._

Looking Harry in the eyes, Malfoy says with full candor, “You’re sorely mistaken.”

With the magnitude of those silver eyes on him, Harry can’t help but remember the last time that he held eye contact with someone. It was about twenty minutes ago, he estimates- unless he really was sprinting through the castle for an hour- and has been firmly locked away in the back of his mind since then. Or so he thought. Now, plump lips hovering over his own is all he can think about, and he begs it to go away, panicked and frightened that he will be found out; Malfoy watches the whole debacle. With one hefty shove, he packs his approaching hysteria away for later. However, as hard as it was, the memory and images start to creep back in with every passing second. Emotions aren’t black and white, and he cannot just turn them on and off with a click of his fingers, as much as he enjoys kidding himself it is possible. Still, he tries.

“Anyways, you’re not fine either,” he states honestly. Malfoy looks affronted, and Harry shakes himself again. He needs to be at his premium; the other boy could leave at any moment and Harry would just be gaping like a fish out of water. “You’re not! Otherwise you wouldn’t be lurking up here for the second night in a row. Hypocrite.”

“I am perfectly content,” says Malfoy with furor. His hair is tousled once again, thank Merlin.

Harry scoffs, “Who’s lying now?”

His angular nose scrunches with temper. The air grows denser, but it is different to when he was in the dorm room. _Go away._ All around them, the wind presses in and he feels like they are seconds from being struck by a hurricane. In fact, now that he observes their surroundings, Malfoy seems to be actively whipping up a gale by accident. It scratches Harry’s cheek as he explodes, “Potter, I will-”

“What?” Harry interrupts, alive, “Hurt me? Punch me? No you won’t. You don’t do anything anymore, apart from mope around.”

“You do exactly the fucking same. If you’re going to call me a hypocrite, at least realise the irony in the statement first,” says Malfoy and Harry wonders if they always knew each other this well. Ron and Hermione would never dare to speak to him like this these days, though he deserves it almost all the time- he has heard them discuss his ‘fragility’ before. 

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Harry offers civilly. Telling of Malfoy’s dissipating anger, the wind calms down, and in its place is a fresh, clear air. It alleviates some of the tension in his head. Grudgingly, Harry is impressed. It takes a strong wizard to do wandless magic, and a stronger one at that to control the elements. He would have never said that the git would be one of them, again proving that he will always underestimate Draco Malfoy. 

Malfoy shuffles against the wall, looking uncomfortable now that they have no excuse to bicker. If he is considering ignoring Harry again, he _will_ find himself getting punched. Then, he moves a fraction too much and it exposes his left forearm. The burn scars loom more ominous than the last time Harry saw them- the moon makes Malfoy even paler and they starkly contrast. 

“Did it hurt when you burnt your Dark Mark?” he asks, and regrets the question as soon as it is out in the open. He has crossed an unspoken boundary, entered new frontiers. Whether Malfoy will deem it too far, or let him across, is a different matter.

“What the fuck?” _Shit._ “How is that any of your business?”

Maybe if he approaches it with the truth, Malfoy might not serve him up boiled for Fang’s dinner. “It’s not, but I want to know,” says Harry, on edge. He wraps his arms around his knees, noticing a significant gravy stain on his robes. 

Cradling his burns with his other arm, Malfoy closes his eyes. He squeezes it slightly and winces, though surely it still doesn’t hurt. The scabbing looks healed, at least. There is a crease in his brow, however, like he is reliving the pain, and Harry feels awful for bringing it up senselessly in the first place. 

Without the iron glower on him, he finds he can breathe- _really_ breathe- again.

Then his lungs fill with lead when Malfoy opens them again, and says directly at him, unforgiving in his glare, “It hurt a lot. So much so that I thought I was dying. Does that make you feel any better? Now that you know I was punished for my crimes in some way.”

It’s a horrific sentiment, Harry wants to block his ears and never hear of such things again. “No,” he mumbles, his stomach lurching. 

A thousand different scenarios, each as horrific as the last, are streaming through his mind, slicing through the fog and leaving his head split into two cracked halves. In one image, Malfoy is sobbing, lifting his arm to a flame whilst he bites on his jumper to stop himself from crying out in agony. In another, he has somebody else hold him down whilst his body thrashes back and forth. The gravy on his robes suddenly looks more like blood. “It actually makes me feel a bit sick,” he says, seeing colorful spots in his vision.

“Ha Ha. You’re hilarious,” Malfoy deadpans, obviously thinking that Harry is making a jab at him about their earlier conversation. 

Harry clutches his stomach, feeling the telltale signs. “No, really. I think I’m going to be sick.” His head is still stranded in between all the different images at once, stuck hearing what he thinks is Malfoy screaming. It could be anyone, though; he might have triggered another memory. Whoever it is, the noise pierces his brain and slices through, ripping even harder. He rushes to the railing, barely getting there in the first place for all the tripping up he nearly does.

“Potter-” calls Malfoy, but it is too late. He hurls off of the Astronomy Tower, before collapsing onto the hard metal. 

Far below, he sees where it landed. 

“That is so gross,” says Malfoy, coming to lean next to him. He is very close and Harry feels the proximity in every part of his body, even in spite of his exhaustion. Usually, everything about the boy yells coldness, a winter chill. But now, Harry finds he is just as warm as any other person- as Hermione, as Ginny- and the familiarity of a human body is comforting as the wind nips at his forehead. 

“At least it didn’t land on anyone,” comments Harry, weak and drained. The iron is digging into his chest and his lungs feel constricted. 

Malfoy chuckles, and it is the kindest thing Harry has ever heard from his mouth. If somebody had told him all it would take is some measly vomit to chip away at Malfoy’s cold heart, Harry would have done it years ago. Maybe he could have been invited along to one of their house parties, where sickness was fruitful. “Nobody else is crazy enough to be out right now.”

“That’s true,” agrees Harry.

Realising how bizarre the situation is, he sighs. Two rivals in the night attempting to find solace in antagonising each other, yet a pathetic bit of vomit brings them it instead. It is that, but still so much more- and so much less.

He gets up, too fast at first. His hands grabble for the railing. From beside him, Malfoy regards the scenery. Ten minutes ago, it was beautiful, but now Harry has had enough.

“Dorm room?” he asks.

Malfoy nods, and they turn their back on the view in sync. 

The walk back is silent, neither of them say a single word. There is no need, and frankly, Harry appreciates the space. It isn’t exactly friendly, but it is accepting. Between them is at least a metre, and Harry finds himself forgetting that Malfoy is there at times, with how quietly the boy treads. His walk is elegant and pacy, like the ground is coming up to meet his every step. Running alongside him, Harry has less gentility than a troll. He lumbers as fast as possible, determined to get the better of his fatigue tonight and to match the speed. Before now, he had never noticed how long Malfoy’s legs are, but then he supposes that he didn’t have any opportunities to walk besides him. Now it is all he can bloody think about; he laments his own stubby ones as Malfoy strides forward. Until they reach the common room, they stay like this. Blaise Zabini ruins it. 

As they are arriving, they meet him in the hallway. His dark gaze is intimidating, his panther smile even more so. He says nothing, just observes the two of them for a moment and lingers on a hostile Malfoy, who bristles under the scrutiny, before taking off speedily down the corridor. What is it with Slytherins and fast walking?

Harry turns to Malfoy to ask him where he thinks Zabini is going in the dead of night, but the twat has already gone. 

\-------

Later, Harry is tucked up in bed, and by tucked, he means constrained. The duvet feels confining and restrictive, and he cannot settle down. When he came in here, Justin was already in bed. It was a great relief, because it would have been just like the boy, warmhearted as he is, to want to try and talk it out. Whatever declaration, apology or grand moment of judgement he has for Harry can wait. Anthony is snoring loud enough to challenge an airplane, and the pillow wrapped around his ears is doing nothing to ease the thunderous sound, despite how tightly it is pressed into his head. 

He is just contemplating going to sleep in the bathroom when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Jumpy, he gasps and jerks his eyes open in shock. 

Lingering over him is Malfoy, dressed in the same blue silk pyjamas that he wore on their first night here. They make him appear so unintimidating that Harry has to smile; he thinks that the point of the expensive silk is probably to boast wealth more than anything, but Malfoy just looks like he belongs in a spa with a bunch of Muggle women. He looks disgruntled and a bit pissed off, as if Harry was the one who woke him up and not the opposite. 

“What?” he whispers, “I’m trying to sleep.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes and Harry gets the idea that he knew he was doing anything but sleeping. Then, faster than lightning, he throws a tiny piece of paper at Harry and stalks back to his own bed. It pokes him in the eye with the sharp corner and Harry scowls at his retreating back, judging it being purposeful. 

When he opens it, it reads, in intricate handwriting completely well known to him by now:

‘ _I don’t hate you.’_

He clasps it in his fingers in disbelief, unsure whether he is dreaming. A flick to his arm isn’t helpful- since he is in a numb state tonight, he wouldn’t be able to feel anything anyway. When Anthony lets out gargantuan snore, he realises that this is indeed reality. 

Suddenly, something hits him on the crown of his head. He lifts his hand up to feel, but there is nothing there but his greasy hair. As confused and dazed as he is at this hour, he is certain he felt it. His fingers pat the bedsheets around him, searching in the darkness for a clue. They fall upon something small, rough and wrinkled all over, and he comes to the bemusing conclusion that it is another piece of paper. 

He glances at Malfoy’s bed, but the curtains are drawn shut and give nothing away. This time it reads:

_‘I still don’t like you though.’_

Harry laughs, unafraid of being loud. He wants Malfoy to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo.... how we feeling? honestly these chapters could be total shit and i wouldn't know because after a while i have no clue what i'm writing anymore. i hope not tho. basically things are really gonna kick off in the next chapter and im excited about it because i have so much plot planned which has been set out since like chapter three and setting it up has taken so longggggg. but i love slow burns with more detail so hopefully you guys do too (im sure you do, otherwise you probably would have quit this story by now)!!! also im sorry about the justin/harry moment.... i know you guys are here for drarry. but i wanted harry to have a bit of a gay realisation before anything happened because its realistic and gritty and the truth is that one day you just realise hey i think my friend is hot oh shit im bisexual....that is what is happening in a nutshell ahahahahaha!! because this story is so harry centric i didn't want his sexuality issues and internalised homophobia to JUST be all about draco- he has his own lil mind too <3
> 
> anyways hope u all enjoyed, as always kudos and comments and shares are really appreciated!!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to me this was a wild one to write but who knows about reading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OF ALL: PLEASE read the beginning of the end notes if u have any triggers and for content warning <3 stay safe
> 
> hiiii guys :-D ITS A YEAR SINCE i started this fic wowee that’s insane and i’ve only done 13 chapters oop.... hopefully it will be quicker from now on!! back with another fat chapter, i think i need to accept that i’m unable to write short ones apparently since they all get to like 10k lol. i think i quite like this chapter but also i have not read it over it in its entirety so who knows LOL there are probably so many mistakes- feel free to point them out but don’t be mean pls :-(. have fun besties xoxoxx

The weather is stormy today, as are the people. Gloomily gathered above, the dark clouds cast a shadow over the grounds and the faces of the students alike. Everyone at Hogwarts seems to be in a strange, snappish mood, for Harry has witnessed countless fights all over the castle already, and it’s only noon. He had even been greeted with Ron and Hermione arguing when he arrived at breakfast, and to make it even more outlandish, the topic of controversy was simply whether they should do a couple costumes for Dean’s impending birthday party. Hermione was apparently abhorred when Ron suggested that she be the ‘sexy Healer’ to his ‘sick patient’, as Ron had later informed Harry. Privately, he is inclined to agree with her and thinks that Ron truly must be sick to have suggested such a thing. Though, he admits that the image is funny.

“You’re no fun, ‘Mione,” Ron had complained grumpily, and was promptly hit with the force of her scorn. He had frowned and aimed for an angry bite of his crispy toast. The crumbs fell down his shirt and a splodge of the tangerine marmalade fell onto his white shirt. He groaned and Hermione looked smugly satisfied. For his part, Harry had simply eaten his own toast in bewilderment and thanked Merlin for being single. 

During his Defence lesson, the class morale had been significantly lower than normal, not excluding Harry. He had slumped over his desk and picked at his nails until they started to feel sore. This didn’t deter him, however. Rather, he just picked harder out of spite; he did this until they started to bleed, raw and stinging from his hate-fuelled attack. Their poor Professor had spent the entire lesson cracking jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood, but they fell upon deaf ears and cricket chirps. Even Hermione appeared to not be listening, her gaze uncharacteristically glassy. The saving grace was Neville, who had shyly cracked a grin and laughed, awkward and false, if only to appease their teacher’s ego. Where the students would be without his jovial attitude, Harry dreads to imagine.

Needing to escape the relentless moaning and dismal faces which were threatening to drag him into a scarily familiar depression, he had attempted to sneak away from his mates once the lesson had finished. Caught, Hermione had raised her eyebrow as he stumbled away, and he prayed that she wouldn’t question him. She seemed to sense his worries, in that wonderful Hermione way, and just smiled tightly. As she squeezed him goodbye, her earl grey scent relieved some of his tension. 

He is now once again walking around the grounds aimlessly, his only goal to not give in to whatever demon is plaguing the castle. It is more difficult said than done, and many times has he felt his eyes prick with tears for no apparent reason. The irrevocability of it makes him feel weak, and he keeps his eyeline low, ashamed to look up though the only judgement he would face is from the sky itself. In a way it is worse; he would almost rather be teased by a first year than have the pressure of his mind and the earth’s eyes on him. 

It was about a week ago now that Harry had sat, chat, and threw up with Malfoy at the Astronomy Tower. Merlin, the memory of it makes him cringe, _especially_ when he remembers how he had blurted out that forsaken question about Malfoy’s burnt Dark Mark. _Talk about being insensitive._ The horrified look on the other boy’s face is ingrained into his brain, destined to haunt Harry for the remainder of his failure of a life.

Since then, things have been peculiar, to say the least. Because, for once in Harry’s entire existence, there seems to be a genuine sort of civility between them- not the fake kind, not the unspoken words and cold shoulders of the first few weeks. No, this time it feels real, of substance. 

That isn’t to say that Harry likes it. In fact, he would go as far as saying that he actively dislikes the jarring half-peace that has plonked itself in the hard-edged space of their fading rivalry. It is nonsensical; he is certain that even the most genius of people would be rightfully baffled by his reaction. But, funnily enough, it doesn’t shock him anymore, this adversity to letting go of a relationship to Malfoy, no matter how fraught with resentment it was. It isn’t that he enjoys the fighting and the animosity. No, that weighs him down, makes him feel like he is going backwards. Back to the war, back to being so wildly angry, back to fear, and running, and real, terrifying danger. But it still assuredly feels more natural, more normal than this odd, unsettling truce. The change is truly the most frightening thing. 

Yesterday, he had walked past Malfoy on his way to the toilet. Habitually, they had both stopped in their tracks, two metres from each other, bodies tense. Harry opened his mouth to speak, because, well, they always had _something_ to say to each other, even though it was usually spewing with resentment and scathing insults. He found, however, that nothing was coming out. All he could do was stand there spluttering, like a fish out of water. Malfoy was biting on his lip awkwardly, as if he was having similar troubles, and Harry tried desperately to put together a sentence in his head. The only thing he was able to come up with was _Hey, Malfoy, um, I don’t know how not to hate you. Got any tips?_. Then, just as he was about to make a mindless, empty comment about their Potions homework, Malfoy was nodding his head stiffly in an uncomfortable mixture of greeting and acknowledgement, before he strode away. 

So very weird. 

And on top of all that confusion, Harry doesn’t know how to proceed with finding out what Malfoy is up to- doesn’t know if he _should_. It feels almost cruel now to prod at both his and the other boy’s old wounds like this when they are so close to healing. Still, he can’t quite shake it. Some would call it self-sabotage, and he can’t find it in himself to disagree with that. 

Out here, in the muggy and oppressive air, he finds that running away from these problems hasn’t helped. If anything, it just makes him feel cowardly, which in turns reminds him of something he has been frantically repressing ever since it happened.

Justin. 

For the last four nights, he has awoken in a cold sweat, the ghost of Justin’s breath still tingling on his. Justin. Another _man_. He could lie and say that it was the fault of the other boy alone- that he came at Harry from nowhere, all soft lips, strong hands and bold movements. It would be in his best interests to do that, to go back to how it was before. It is as if Harry has been living with his curtains shut his whole life, existing in a hollow darkness but not knowing any different. But now, imagine that he has tripped, fallen head-first into these curtains. Picture the way they would open- just a glimpse- and a slither, only small, of golden light would burst into the room like a comet blazing through the sky. It would illuminate the spot on the wall opposite, a flowing outpour of energy never seen before. Would he just be able to just leave it at that? Keep them only half-open, doomed to never learn more, or even more torturous, dare to close them again? 

He hopes for the sake of his sanity that he can, but with each passing day, his hand inches closer to ripping that curtain open. 

The unwanted awareness that he is in some form of denial is crushing. With the way that he militantly casts away the rogue thoughts that pester him throughout the day, and spends hours trying to wipe his mind during the night, it couldn’t be anything else. Then again, being in denial goes hand in hand with the implication that there is something he is trying to cover, and he refuses to acknowledge that too. You could say, if you can excuse the ridiculousness- he certainly can’t- that it is a double denial. 

Anyhow, he is feeling fragile, and on edge. Too many questions and he might snap. That is why, when Justin approaches him next, as he has done four or five times so far, Harry will continue the pattern of smiling sheepishly, before running away. It is the understanding pity in Justin’s eyes that makes him the most frightened. There is nothing he would want to do less than have someone confirm all of _this_ for him, especially someone as _experienced_ as Justin. Think of all the well-meaning, solid advice he would have to endure and possible take up. Ignorance really can be bliss. 

His cowardice is becoming increasingly clear, but there is not enough shame in the world to spur him to action. Instead, he will just focus on his routines. He will go on walks. Yes, go on walks, maybe visit Hagrid, be subjected to listening to Ron and Hermione’s loving bickering like the proper third-wheel that he is. And he will do the mandatory things too, as unbearable as they are. He will eat three meals, leave the bed even when he doesn’t have to, get a good night's sleep, _proceed to lose sleep over the haunting realisation that, maybe, he is a little attracted to some men_. 

Shit.

Well, Harry has been known for bottling his emotions in the past. Why drop the habit?

He is nearing a clearing, and realises upon further inspection that it is the same one in which he found Malfoy in the middle of the night, practising his strange spell. It looks vastly different to how it did then, with the silver beams creating an oasis of light for them. Now, the place has lost any ethereal quality that the night gave it, looking like any other muddy British path. It is almost impossible to combine the two images in his mind but, if he focuses, he can almost see Malfoy’s lithe form, wand poised, in the spot he had stood in then. Some things transcend reality. 

Gradually, he comes to a slow stop. There is a weird energy in the air, and he swears he can hear a faint tinkling sound ringing in the back of his head. The clouds seem to hang lower here, pressing down on him. 

Suddenly, a ball of light grabs his attention. It travels through the air until it halts, hovering directly in front of him and beckoning him to come closer. It is curious, appearing to have come from nowhere, and looking suspiciously like the same light Harry had seen the first time he was here. Certainly, it has an uncanny resemblance.

_Malfoy?_

But Malfoy is nowhere to be seen in the vicinity, and Harry is only partially glad. He came here to get away from his problems, not run into them. Still, he can’t help but feel marginally glad whenever he sees the boy. If Malfoy is anything, it is definitely not a routine. He is unpredictable and unexpected, a puzzle, not unlike life. 

About to leave, allowing himself a smidgen of disappointment, Harry turns away. However, the tinkle that he had thought he heard earlier rings louder, alarmingly so. It almost sounds... panicked? His eyes seek out the silver light and find it vibrating in the air. Sucking in a deep breath, he moves a step closer. The ball seems to take this as a sign and glows brighter still, and then zooms away around a nearby blackberry bush. Some peculiar force tells Harry to follow, and follow he does. 

It leads him around several trees, bushes, before Harry begins to wonder what he is doing. For somebody who has lived in the magical world for years, he is secretly still sometimes a little skeptical. Whether it is the magic itself or just his general distrust of his own brain is debatable. Whilst he had followed Snape’s Patronus back in the war, that was a legible thing, an obvious and undeniable piece of magic. A minute light ball, however, which could just as easily be a trick of his tired and anxious mind? He is not so sure. 

Despite this, the churning and uneasy feeling in his gut outweighs his head and he continues along behind it. It takes him around countless bends and turns and, with a small cry, he realises that they could possibly be entering the Forest. The trees have assuredly risen high enough to be those he remembers every night in his nightmares, and a fog is beginning to materialise near the ground. He can no longer see where the dark foliage meets the sinking clouds, instead it forms one lid to a glass which traps him in it’s vile grasp.

It seems to get darker still, the horizon shrouded in shadow. _Wait_. With a panic, he notices the light has disappeared. Without it’s company, he feels more lonely than ever and he yearns for fifteen minutes ago, when it pioneered the route like his guardian angel.

It’s absence almost makes him run back, and he realises how foolish he is. He wouldn’t even know which way to go. He feels tears well up in his eyes against his will and he fights to keep them down. The atmosphere seems to feed on his anxiety, growing stronger as he becomes weaker. What if this is dark magic? For all he knows, Malfoy could have been tricking him into a false sense of security these last few days, waiting to pounce. 

At one point, in all his nervous distraction, he bashes into a branch. As he rises, rubbing where it hit him, it flings back with even more vigour and rips his cheek. Pain blossoms, hot and sickly, and he places a hand at the point of injury. When he brings it back down, he sees dark specks of blood on his fingers and feels woozy. It forces memories filled with anguish and fear, all bathed and dripping in red and black, to the front of his mind; he has to sit down and catch his breath.

Placing his head in his hands, he scrunches his hair, the grease ensuring that he feels every time he forwent a shower in favour of climbing into bed. He doesn't register it and quickly tries to calm his breathing, concentrating on the air coming in and out of his lungs and nothing else. Because, if he allows himself to think, he will realise that he is nearing the spot where Voldemort struck him down, the moment he is cursed to relive every time he closes his eyes. Being on the floor means he can sense every inch of the wet ground. It is blanketed in fallen twigs, stodgy soil and the rotting carcasses of defenceless things, soon to be joined by him, most likely. The rough texture is harrowingly familiar. He had felt it on his face, when he had fallen- not a cushion but a destructive landing. Before Dumbledore, and death. 

He loses his grip on himself, breaths no longer coming uniformly but in harsh, jagged stabs to his chest. This has to be a dream.

 _“Avada Kedavra!_ someone shouts in the distance and Harry scrambles to his feet, dodging the impending blow.

His heart racing, he grabs his wand and aims it outwards, a shield. Recalling upon experience, he keeps his eyes sharp and refuses to even blink. It renders him vulnerable. Breathing heavily, he grounds himself, willing that he stands upright and sturdy, like he once did.

Whoever the attacker was, they aren’t in sight. This makes him even more aware of the dark, all the opportunities it would give someone to hide. Somewhere far in the distance, a branch snaps and he whirls around. Logically, he knows it could just be an animal, but the terror that has struck his body tells him otherwise. 

Could it be Malfoy? Some part of him thinks it is undoubtedly so- the part which has been watching his every move, full of suspicion, full of distrust. The other part, the bit whose heart skipped in excitement when the boy spoke softly about tea, which felt the warmth of Malfoy’s humanity and the beginning of peace as they leaned over the railings at the Astronomy Tower together, says otherwise. He doesn’t know which to believe. One lives deep in their past, one in their future.

Alas, better safe than sorry. He forgets the Astronomy Tower momentarily, it could cost him his life.

(Nothing happens. One minute, two minutes, three.)

He circles cautiously, making sure he has checked over everything. No stone can be left unturned. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, his hands shaking, though he pretends they are not. There is no time to panic. 

Then, slowly but surely, his adrenaline fades. His heartbeat comes back down from the heights to which it skyrocketed. Clarity creeps in. 

There wasn’t anyone. It wasn’t real. It was just a memory. It was _Voldemort_.

The realisation rocks him and his body shudders with relief and residual fear alike. He stumbles to the nearest tree, using the solidity of the trunk to ground him. Heaving deep breaths, he lets the tears fall unabashedly. After all, there is nobody here. 

Coarse, craggy bark comforts him, pressing into the stinging cut on his face and bringing him back to reality. Voldemort’s voice still surrounds him, as if it were happening again, but it quiets as the minutes pass. Smells of pine waft up his nostrils, gentle. This tree suddenly feels like the most substantial thing in his life and he wishes he could stand half as sturdy. He clings, sobbing, hoping it will do more than this. Hoping it will fix him. 

A light seems to swell before him- it must be bright because he can see it, even though his eyes are tightly shut and leaking. He opens them and, to his delight, sees the ball of silver from earlier. Granted, it could still be dark magic but he places some sense of faith in the beauty of the thing. It pulsates, as if agreeing. 

As it happens, it proves a good distraction. Soon Harry’s eyes are drying a little, enchanted by what they see before it. The incandescence is strong and as the surrounding area comes to light, he is able to spot where the sky begins once more. It helps him breathe a little easier, but he still refuses to look at the floor. You never know when an enemy may attack, not until it is too late. Eyes up, Harry.

It hovers, perhaps judging how well it thinks he is going to fare with carrying on. He is inclined to think that that would be, _not very well at all_. However, his will is ignored and it moves again, although slower than before. Obviously, it had previously misjudged how quick and attentive Harry is, and he tries not to be disgruntled by the fact that a puny ball of light is faster than him. 

He follows it, and try as he might, he cannot completely settle. There is still a tentative stillness in the air, a pressure that suffocates him. And of course, Harry himself continuously proves to be an issue. 

They seem to head deeper into the heart of the Forest. As the trees thicken, he has to actively work hard in order to steady his breathing and his pulse, which threatens to spike at the next inconvenience. Whatever this is, it seems to be important. It has been a long time since Harry has felt needed; he won’t just throw that away. 

There is little warning before Harry encounters the next shock of the day. All he sees is the light come to a standstill as they approach a clearing, which he quickly realises is not as foreign as he originally thought, and _no, no, no, no, no_. Rapidly, things get even worse. Had he known that were possible, he would have run, but he has no chance before he spots something else. Upon the floor, just by the trunk of a particularly huge tree, is the foreboding sight of a wand. He knows it, not well, but it’s _his_ wand, it’s- 

Malfoy.

Lying on the ground, head tilted to one side and arms limp like a ragdoll, is the body of Draco Malfoy. His skin is paler than the iciest winter, and there is a grey tinge to his pallor that almost paints him as monotone. If it weren’t for the pale bluish-pink of his lips, Harry would think the scene was in black and white. His eyes are sealed shut, like he has been trying to block something out. Whilst his arms are weakly splayed about, his fists are clenched. 

Harry gasps, chokes on air and falls to the ground next to him. No longer does he care about where they are. Nothing has ever mattered less. 

“Malfoy?” he says frantically, praying, hoping. He shakes the boy, noticing with alarm how cold he is. His chest is silent and still, and Harry realises he is crying again. “Can you hear me?”

No answer, not that he expected one. His stomach feels like it is trying to claw its way out of him and he feels like he is going to wretch. He puts his ear to Malfoy’s lips, waiting for a breath that never comes. All of his suffering has just come down to this moment- this crucifying pinnacle of horror. Malfoy’s unresponsive body, crippled and lifeless like a picked flower, in the same clearing where Harry had once been murdered, is a vision straight from his darkest nightmare.

“Malfoy, please,” stifles Harry, swallowing down a sob. Whispering, he says, “I can’t do this. Please.”

It is excruciating, watching one of the worst moments of your life unfold in front of you. The shock of it knocks him back from where he had been shaking Malfoy, and he is overwhelmed by the magnitude of what is happening. All he knows is that at a certain point, numbness and pain can coexist; he has both.

Malfoy is dead. Harry’s freaking out. 

And then, miraculously, he breathes.

Just once, but it is enough for Harry. Enough to kick his brain back into rusty action. He waves his wand and shouts, “Expecto Patronum!” His stag takes off into the woods, a trail of silver, hopefully on it’s way to bring help. 

In the meantime, he casts a feeble Stasis Charm in the hope that it might stabilise whatever condition Malfoy is in, which appears to be pretty bad, judging by his infrequent breathing. He probably does something wrong, Hermione would know instantly, but he begs to every God that is listening that it is adequate enough to do the job. Never before has he regretted not paying attention in Charms quite like this. 

“It’s okay, Malfoy, someone is coming. You’ll be fine,” he mutters. It is so quiet that Malfoy probably wouldn’t even be able to hear it were he to be listening, but it is more for Harry’s sake than anything. 

It hits him that whoever did this to Malfoy is still out there, and he promptly sets up a charm which will alert him if anyone is nearby. Hermione taught it to him, she teaches him everything he knows. He is useless without her. Where is she now?

Malfoy breathes again, which is more than can be said for Harry.

In a state of shock and anxiety, he begins to question whether he did make up that encounter earlier, though he is certain he did. It was certainly Voldemort’s voice, and Harry dreads to think that he could ever return. Though he had watched his body fall, watched it crumple and give into the weight of holding pure evil, he has to admit the thought does plague him. In a world where the lines of science and magic are blurred, you can never feel complacent. Voldemort came back from near-death once before, and Harry isn’t definite that he couldn’t again. He also feels overwhelmingly guilty that he wasted so much time- was even worried that it was Malfoy himself who tried to kill him- when the boy in question had in fact been here, dying alone whilst he hugged a tree.

Still terrified, he watches Malfoy. His chest rises once, taking breathes far too shallow and sparse. Seeking some form of reassurance, he tries not to think too much about what he is doing, and places a hand onto the other boy’s chest. For far too long, he is stationary, as still as the windless air. When he finally exhales, Harry remembers that he is, in fact, a Wizard, and that he can actually do something about the chill which has settled over Malfoy’s body. He himself shivers too, though from the inside out. 

Not taking his eyes off of Malfoy’s breathing pattern- the only thing holding him together- he wandlessly casts a Warming Charm. It spreads to them both slowly, but him first. With Malfoy, it takes longer, so much so that Harry begins to question if it is actually doing anything. He wouldn’t be surprised to find that Malfoys can't get warm- that this temperature is depressingly his perpetual coldness. But, remembering the Astronomy Tower, and the heat against the edge of his body as Malfoy had stood beside him, he knows that this isn’t true. It feels like a secret. 

Two things happen next. A faint rosy flush begins to show up on Malfoy’s cheeks; he looks less like a broken China doll now, and more just like he is enjoying a deep sleep. It eases a tension that Harry hadn’t realised was there. He smiles, reassured.

Then, a _Crack_ and Mcgonagall appears, a few metres from them both. 

“Harry?” she asks, staring with wide eyes at the scene, “What happened?”

“Professor, I-” he starts to explain, but loses his words. “I don’t know. He needs help. Now. I put him under a Stasis Charm, but I don’t think it will hold.”

Mcgonagall looks a little faint but in that no-fuss, practical way of hers, she sends her own Patronus off to Madam Pomfrey and rushes over to them. Suddenly, a thought seems to occur to her and she whips her iron gaze to Harry, pain in her eyes. “Potter, please tell me this wasn’t your doing,” she says, a plea in her voice.

“What?” Harry says indignantly, stumped at the accusation, “Of course not. I-I found him like this.”

She seems to take in his dried tear tracks and general dishevelled state, and thankfully accepts his unlikely tale with a nod. Harry scrubs hotly at his cheeks, embarrassed, as soon as she turns her eyes to Malfoy. _Get a grip, this is supposed to be your sworn nemesis,_ he reprimends himself, though the absurdity and drama of the statement nearly makes him laugh.

“Harry, let me get this perfectly clear. What you are saying is that you saw nothing that could indicate why Mr. Malfoy is in this condition?” presses Mcgonagall. As always, she gets down to the gritty business, all the while replacing Harry’s own shoddy charmwork. He appreciates that there is no mention of his own condition. 

He observes, disgusted yet intrigued, as her wand draws a substance, black and gloopy, out of Malfoy’s mouth. It seems to never cease, and Harry pales, imagining how it would feel to have that inside him. Sticky, like tar, and teeming with a dark aura that even him in all his blindness could spot from a mile away. Eventually, the last is trickling out, clutching the edge of Malfoy’s lips like he is the antidote. Mcgonagall swishes her wand and the goop gathers into a ball. She swiftly transfigures a nearby stone into a glass vial to contain it. 

Several beats pass and Harry realises that the Headmistress is staring at him. His mind draws a blank, still struggling to process the events, until he remembers that she had asked him a question.

“Nothing,” he confirms lamely, shaken, “I was just following- uh- something, and then I found him. Like this.”

He neglects to tell her about the ball of light, since he isn’t one hundred percent convinced that it was even real or tangible in the first place. Though, he got here somehow- didn’t he? However, as he has stated time and time again, he appears to be fated to run into Malfoy at the most inopportune moments- whether it be in life, or (near) death. 

“Professor, I-I think, well,” he begins, but finds that he has to restart. Swallowing his nerves, his next words fall out as one. “I think he was almost dead.”

The statement hangs heavy in the air, and is only absolved by a shy breath from the boy in discussion.

“I see,” she says, concerned. As she scans Malfoy’s sapless form, she seems to come to a conclusion. “I don’t want to risk moving him until Poppy has arrived. It could do more harm than good in his fragile state. Whatever that abhorrent substance was, I removed the majority of it, but there is no telling what havoc it has already managed to wreak on his body.” Harry nods in agreement and she stands up abruptly. 

“Watch him whilst I set up wards.”

And watch, he does.  
\-----

After Madam Pomfrey arrived a few minutes later, she checked Malfoy’s vitals and frowned so aggressively that Harry felt it secondhand. It was only after administering a few potions to Malfoy’s system that she deemed him stable enough to travel. Mcgonagall had sent Harry onwards, ordering him to go back to the common room for now and leaving no room for debate. He was excused from his last lesson on the grounds that he would likely punch someone if they were to ask him the wrong question. 

He had left, albeit reluctantly, and found the walk back to the castle to be one of the most challenging tasks he had ever encountered. Numerous times he almost caved in to the sweet promises of the floor, calling him down. At Hagrid’s, the itch to knock at the door and seek a cup of tea was almost unbearable. But, when he caught a glimpse of Hagrid’s hairy head through the window, smiling broadly as Fang licked his face, he couldn’t imagine anything worse than inflicting his gloom on such a happy moment.

Currently, he is sitting on the Astronomy Tower. It isn’t as pleasant as he thought it would be; the long lengths of plank suddenly seem to accentuate how large the place is, and how little fills it. 

He thinks back to last week, when Malfoy had mocked him for spewing over half the platform. When the git recovers, Harry has plenty of vengeful jabs in store. Idiots who administer litres of poisonous substance and almost die as a consequence deserve it. Idiots who practically give their rivals-turned-acquaintances heart attacks by doing said deed in their most feared location. 

Questions upon questions flit through his mind; he wants to know more than anything what caused this to happen. His subconscious whispers that it isn’t any of his business whether Malfoy decides to die in his spare time, but he ignores it. Did somebody hurt him, attack him like those boys did it in the corridor? The perpetrator could have been running away just as Harry found him. If he had only worked a bit faster, wasted less time blubbering like a lost lamb, then maybe he could have got there first. Whoever it was would have been no match for the two of them. The thought is agonising. 

And a second theory, worse yet, begins to brew and stew in his already bubbling brain. It is painful to consider, excruciating to contemplate. Certainly, though, it demands to be heard.

Could it have been self inflicted? Purposeful.

He would have never thought it to be Malfoy’s style. Credit given where credit is due, and the Slytherin has always been a fighter, tenacious and unrelenting. Perhaps the issue started when Mcgonagall then went and took the Slytherin away when she eradicated houses for the eighth years. It certainly made Harry feel a little stripped of identity, though he no longer relies on Gryffindor when searching for reasons to be prideful.

Visions of the last few weeks: a sallow expression, words, clipped and unimpassioned. The way that Malfoy never seems to let himself feel- never laughs, never loves, rarely even hates. Only when Harry forced him to. How he refused to follow up any leads that involved his attackers, didn’t seem to care. The brewing of a Potion suspiciously similar to the Draught of Living Death. Maybe Harry had been wrong all along; there was no mystery, only another war-trodden boy with a blue heart and his own closetful of ghosts.

His chest aches. The clouds finally begin to part, only to reveal another grey sky underneath. He pushes his thoughts back down to where they came from, locks them away in the same chest he has everything else sealed in. Running away with wild conspiracies will lead you on a road which never ends if you’re too rash with it. It still wouldn’t be able explain the attack outside of the Defence classroom, or the spells Malfoy has been practising. There must be more.

Must be.

He slumps against the railing, succumbing to the cold in the space where the warmth of a body had once been. 

——-

A day passes without consequence. Harry dutifully dodges most people who come to find him, including Ron and Hermione. Despite his stubborn insistence to be alone, they had discovered him at the Astronomy Tower last night, arriving with a hot plate of food in hand. He had gobbled it up gratefully, realising he had gone over a day without anything other than a slice of toast. Hermione had hugged him tightly, informing him that Mcgonagall had revealed some scarce details to her and Ron only. He was tightlipped about the whole affair. They left soon after that, though not before several attempts to comfort him. It didn’t go unappreciated despite his solemn exterior- in reality, their kindness made him weak at the knees.

He bunked all of his lessons today, choosing to spend the day in the greenhouses. Neville needed help with a personal Herbology assignment, which he is hoping will push him over the edge just enough to get him accepted to an esteemed degree course in Wales. Harry seeks him out for his reliable, hands- on attitude. 

Surely enough, as his fingernails get dirtier with soil, he loses himself in the rhythm of repotting. For all his awkwardness in their adolescence, Neville has grown into an astutely aware individual. He seems to sense Harry’s reluctance to speak, and respects it from a safe distance. The sun streams through the glass roof of the greenhouse, blocked only by the untamed ivy that rules the place, and not the other way around. Wood and earthy smells drift in and out of the open window. He likes it here.

Too quickly, they come to an end.

“Thanks, Harry,” smiles Neville, pulling off his mud-soaked gloves. “This was a massive help.”

“It’s nothing,” replies Harry and he means it. “I enjoyed it. Honestly, let me know if you need any more help.” 

“I might have to pull you up on that. Everything I’m doing for this entry is starting to make me age faster than Filch. Did you know he’s only forty-three?’ says Neville. They put away their trays and start to head out of the door.

Harry laughs in genuine disbelief, “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, that‘s what Fred and George once told me, so spread it at your own risk, I guess,” says Neville with a sad smile. 

Returning it, Harry tries not to wince at the mention of Fred. It turns out biology doesn’t matter so much when it comes to grief; any illusions about it not hurting were shattered the moment he walked into the service for the funeral. He sees Fred’s laugh in the way the sun grins down at them now, just a little.

“Definitely not true, then,” he jokes, although it comes out as melancholy.

“Probably not,” replies Neville. There is a silhouette of ivy against his skin where the sun has kissed it. Twinkling under the luminescence, his brown eyes seem to gleam gold. It hits Harry that Neville deserved the blessing of the Sword of Gryffindor more than he himself ever did. He recognises it now in the richness of Neville’s stare and so he smiles, reeling with pride on the other boy’s behalf.

Suddenly, Neville clasps his shoulder and draws him a hearty hug. It is unexpected, and not entirely welcome at first. However, he should have long learnt not to underestimate the power behind one of the man’s infamous hugs, since it soon provides a little comfort. He squeezes back wholeheartedly.

Pulling away, he says, “See ya, Nev.”

“Bye Harry,” Neville waves and turns to walk down the corridor, which runs in the other direction. He only gets approximately halfway though, before sprinting back. “Wait!” Just thought I’d let you know that I think Malfoy is awake. I heard Pomfrey talking about it earlier when I swung by for something.”

Harry jolts at the mention of the other boy. All day he has been repressing the need to go and check on him from afar or, at the very least, ask after him. The memory of him, paler than the very ghosts that live among them and unbreathing for the most part, is a stain upon Harry. He sees it even when he closes his eyes, imprinted on his eyelids.

“Oh?” he says, trying to seem unbothered. From the way Neville nods enthusiastically, attempting encouragement, he isn’t sure it is working. Indeed, when he thinks on it, he is unsure as to why Neville thought it so necessary to tell _him_ of all people. His cheeks flush, feeling oddly like he has been called out- though for what, he is clueless. “That’s good, I guess.”

“Yeah. Do you know what happened?” Neville asks harmlessly, unaware that Harry’s heart beats faster at the question. He doesn’t, not really, but that hasn’t stopped him from speculating frantically. “I know I shouldn’t gossip but sometimes you just have to wonder. I hope he’s okay. It might sound a bit weird of me to say, but I do.”

Touched by the genuine care and compassion in his tone, Harry smiles in response. He won’t give any of the minor information he has away, regardless, but it is a welcome sight to hear someone treat the other boy with humility. 

“No idea. I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he says, not much believing his own words. Then, without dwelling on the implications too much, he adds half-heartedly, “Whatever happened, he probably deserved it.”

It sounds harsh and ill-meaning against Neville’s kind words, and Harry curses himself for his ineptitude with social skills. They both share an uneasy chuckle, and he suspects neither of them find anything especially amusing in the recycled joke.

“Yeah,” Neville agrees, laughing though his lips are downturned, “Probably.”

An eerie image pops into his mind, one he doesn’t appreciate in the slightest. Harry knows that they’re both thinking it. Somebody out there, with blood and vengeance in their heart, might have said the same thing, right before they aimed for the kill. 

——-

When Harry sneaks into the Hospital Wing after everyone has gone to bed, he realises it could be, and probably is, his most illogical idea yet. Without a doubt, Malfoy will smirk, as if to drawl _Look at you, Potter. Pathetic. Unable to stay away?_ , before screaming for Madam Pomfrey to drag him out of the infirmary by his ankles. Either that, or the second, worse option, which is that Malfoy will simply stare at him and ask him why in Merlin’s name he is there. To which, Harry will have no reply. 

He dreads what he is about to do even more with every passing second, but he can’t deny himself this one, idiotic thing. One of many, granted. Needless to say that regret will inevitably chase him but he can take it. Knowing that Malfoy is alive, that he will have another opportunity to belittle Harry, leave him tingling- _seeing this all with his own eyes_ \- takes priority.

Whipping out the Invisibility Cloak just before he reaches the door, he steels himself for what lies beyond it. He pushes it open, not ready but acknowledging that he likely never will be. 

The door is heavy, the solid oak challenging him to turn back, and his hands are sweaty. Malfoy will be asleep anyway. 

But he isn’t, of course he isn’t. 

He is slumped, clearly exhausted yet, undeniably, awake in his bed. Harry feels a weight lifted from his shoulders at the sight of him alive, and releases a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding in. Dressed in the light blue Hospital gown and only a fraction less pale than he had been yesterday, Malfoy looks minutes from death. Not quite the peace of mind that Harry was searching for. He aches to reach out and check, placing his hand over the boy's frail chest like he had before, that he is in fact still breathing.

And then, he notices that Malfoy’s eyes are wide, staring directly at Harry. Panicking, Harry grasps at his Cloak, needing to reassure himself that it is still in place. 

Had he been more careful, more thoughtful and measured in his clumsy movements, things might have followed according to plan. He could have slipped out, satiated and satisfied having seen that Malfoy is still around to torment the world for at least another day. On his way back to bed, he would have realised that Malfoy wasn’t staring at _him_ , only the door behind, which had suspiciously just swung wide open for no apparent reason.

This isn’t what happens.

Harry, mind frozen, brings his hand down to feel the cloak for, in his stupor, he worries that he might have left it outside or something of the like. Too fast, it was too forceful- something pulled. Too slow, the pressure built, dragging it down with it. He isn’t sure which of these it is, but somehow the cloak ends up falling. Falling- slowly, dramatically, until it lands on the floor in a heaped puddle.

Harry gulps, not looking up.

“I should find it surprising that you’re here. Funnily enough, I don’t,” Malfoy’s voice drones from across the room. He certainly doesn’t sound as aggravated as Harry had assumed he would be. Despite the ants crawling over Harry, an itch of shame and humiliation, there is another layer of emotion which flashes over him upon hearing him speak. Relief.

“Also, I _knew_ you had one of those,” continues Malfoy and Harry assumes he means his Invisibility Cloak. The glare which is shot in his direction doesn’t take someone with eyes to feel. It burns enough. “Pansy always said I was chatting bollocks. I was right, though. Obviously.”

Harry doesn’t reply, not finding anything that will excuse him of his creepy behaviour. His feet are both pointed inwards, and his shoes have a hole in them.

Any moment Malfoy will call for Madam Pomfrey, and Harry will have to take the hit to his ego and leave peacefully. Or he can run out here now; maybe it would let him keep some of his dignity to do it of his own accord. There would be heavy chagrin at having to be marched out by the school nurse at the age of eighteen.

“Potter?” says Malfoy, slightly quieter now. 

Blinking, Harry concentrates on his big toe. He really should go.

Malfoy sucks in two consecutive deep breaths. Nothing is said for a few seconds, but he can sense something is coming, so he remains still. His head tells him that if he moves, he could shatter what’s left of this delicate situation.

“You are really here right, Potter? You’re real?” 

His voice is close to silent; there is a hint of fear and sadness woven in with his words. It is the oddest thing Harry has ever heard him say. If he hadn’t regarded him himself a few moments prior, Harry might have questioned whether it was even Malfoy lying in that bed, or some imposter. 

“Uh- yes. It’s me,” replies Harry after a lengthy pause, “Real.” _At least I think so._

Finally, heart hammering, he lifts his eyeline to meet Malfoy’s. Forget everything he has ever said- this wins first place by a landslide for the most difficult moment of his life. The weight of his head on his neck is heavier than a heart soaked in guilt.

When they eventually lock eyes, Harry thinks that maybe Malfoy wasn’t expecting him to ever look up. He feels a smidgen of conceit that he, for once, was able to perplex the other boy. Malfoy is fidgeting, seemingly uncomfortable all of a sudden. His fingers fiddle agitatedly with each other. Harry is sure that he is doing it subconsciously and would be mildly horrified to be seen doing something so _revealing_ of emotion in his presence. Merlin forbid.

“Right,” says Malfoy, uncharacteristically awkward, “That’s- uh- good.”

Harry expects him to demand why he is here, the reason for his bizarre company in the dark shades of night, why he felt the need to sneak in like some lewd fifth year visiting his girlfriend. If it were him in Malfoy’s position, he would doubtlessly be perturbed by his inexplicable behaviour. But Malfoy says nothing. Just blinks, breathes, shuffles.

His gown is just a fraction too large; it slips down his shoulder to reveal sharp collar bones but smooth skin, carved from marble. Harry forces himself to look away, bewildered by how intriguing he finds Malfoy’s bare shoulder, of all things. 

In the end, it is Harry who speaks, despite planning to leave after their short exchange shrivels into a pitiful non-existence. It doesn’t seem to be in his power to make the decision to slink away, however, so he prays to whoever is in charge that they be merciful and release him from their mocking grasp soon.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, desperate to know but the words tasting wrong on his tongue either way.

Malfoy’s eyes widen. He supposes the question doesn't particularly fall in line with their usual tone of conversation. But neither does Harry’s presence here, so perhaps all rules have been hurled out of the window.

Though, remembering sixth year, he might have to modify that statement. 

“Quite rubbish. Pomfrey has some vile tasting potions,” replies Malfoy, half-serious but clearly avoiding the seriousness at hand. He twists his skeletal fingers even harder now; Harry stares, in awe at this uncomfortable, openly flustered version of his longtime rival. Just as Harry thought would happen, Malfoy appears to notice his gaze and flushes deeply before stopping immediately. 

“She does. Skele Gro is still probably the worst thing I’ve consumed to this date,” jokes Harry flatly, “Tastes like a House Elf’s rags.”

Malfoy just hums in agreement. His pale brows are furrowed; everything about him makes Harry wish he was an artist. Never has a person looked so intriguing. Maybe he will ask Luna her thoughts, she draws and he knows she couldn’t disagree. It is an objective fact, nothing more. 

Pulled by some magnetic force, Harry moves a bit closer, to the end of the bed. He is careful about this, unlike he had been earlier with the Cloak. Every part of Malfoy’s body language, apart from his fingers, now stiff and motionless, yells of a spooked-cat. Harry doesn’t want him to run away. He himself does that often enough for the both of them.

Calling upon the memory of Neville’s golden eyes, a sure sign of his honest and true Gryffindor character, Harry wills himself to be brave once more. It is a skill that he is having to relearn, so he is a little rusty.

“Malfoy, what happened?” he asks, throwing caution to the wind for this one moment. The wind catches it, whisking it away. There is no getting that back.

“Why?” responds Malfoy, a warning flashing in his eyes, “What is it to you? Are you here to gloat?”

“What? No!” exclaims Harry, “Does it matter? Can’t you just answer the question?” He feels frustration climb his spine; Malfoy is finally asking for answers he himself has been seeking.

“I‘ll tell you the same thing I told Mcgonagall and every other fucking teacher who has come to interrogate me today: I don’t know. One moment I was taking a walk, the next thing I know I’m on the floor,” snaps Malfoy, hostile. 

Harry thinks he has finally embraced insanity, because there’s no way that he seriously felt the pricklings of joy at these words. It’s just that the picture of Malfoy only a day ago, defeated on the floor as he just described, versus the incensed and steaming boy in front of him is too much of a delightful contrast to feel anything but respite.

And he may be generally oblivious, but even he can pick up that this isn’t quite the truth. 

“Walking in the Forbidden Forest?” he says casually, raising an eyebrow to convey his disbelief, “Nice place for a stroll I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing. Werewolves, Centaurs and stuff.”

Malfoy sniffed, irritated. “I was there to feed the Thestrals.” 

“Oh really?” Harry laughs, “You’re an animal lover now? I’ll have to tell Hagrid. He’ll be overjoyed. Maybe he’ll even let you join in with feeding the Blast- ended Skrewts now and again.” 

He doesn’t physically, but Harry can feel Malfoy mentally flipping him off. 

“You do that and I’ll tell everyone just how much you’ve been stalking me,” threatens Malfoy, a glint in his eye. Cruel. Addictive.

“As if. You’re just as terrified to talk to people,” quips Harry. He steadfastly ignores the fact that he just gave away his social anxiety like it is anybody’s information. Thankfully, Malfoy seems to discard it as important; it is likely something he didn’t need to be told to know that it’s true. Harry isn’t the most subtle.

Malfoy tilts his head, a shiver of a smirk on his lips. “So you admit it? You’ve been stalking me?” His voice is dripping with menacing tease.

Embarrassed but determined not to show it, Harry bites back, “Only as much as you’ve been stalking me.” It doesn’t sting as much as he would have wished, mostly because he knows it’s a lie. For the majority, Malfoy has instead actively been avoiding him. 

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy gestures to Harry’s general figure with exasperated hands. He says, bolder than Harry remembers him ever being before, “Potter, you literally broke into the Hospital Wing just to watch me.”

Perhaps, when Harry called upon the wind for help, it took Malfoy’s caution too. He blames Neville.

“I didn’t come to _watch_ you, Malfoy,” says Harry, narrowing his eyes and sitting down on the end of the bed. He meant it as a sort of display of power, to show his firmness and stability, but the close proximity between them instead makes him shrink back, unsettled. His stomach is both sinking and inflating with some kind of unnamed emotion. “I was just- uh- checking whether you had decided to die in your sleep. I didn’t save your life again for you to just get off that easy.” 

The last part of the sentence was a mistake; he knows it as soon as it comes out. _Caution, please return_. Even more terrifying is that he thinks that Malfoy understands what he is saying. He sees it mirrored in his expression, in his cold eyes which search for something in Harry’s face, though he doesn’t know what. As he shuffles uneasily, Malfoy seems to find what he is looking for and comes to sit up straight.

“I didn’t ask you to. You don’t need to, I mean,” Malfoy begins to speak, looking ahead at nothing. He is emphatic when he talks, the intent behind his word lands a punch with every syllable. “Some people might think it a blessing to be saved by you, but I see it more as a curse.”

The words run rampant around the empty room, hitting Harry again and again as they lap him. He can’t help but feel hurt by that. Whilst he was being arrogant beforehand, he didn’t think Malfoy would go as far as to say he would rather _die_ than receive Harry’s help. Suddenly, coming here seems more ridiculous than what he first thought- it wasn’t just a reckless move, it was a bad one. 

“Calm down, Potter. No need to look like a kicked puppy,” continues Malfoy, surprising Harry. He had begun to wonder whether that would be their parting words. “I’m sorry that I don’t fancy being another one of your projects. I just mean to say that sometimes it would be nice to not feel like I owe you.”

“Projects?” He asks, dumbfounded, “Wait- owe me?”

“Yes, Potter. Congratulations, it appears that you’ve finally managed to acquire the skill of listening. It really is rather useful,” says Malfoy, tone parched, and he rolls his eyes once again. 

The looseness of the gown means that it has slipped even further; Harry swallows. Odd- his throat feels dry.

“So are you planning on ever actually answering any questions? Or are you just going to be a git forever?” mocks Harry, jutting his chin out. Merlin, Malfoy brings out the petulant teenager in him, but he would be kidding himself if he said it didn’t make him feel a little giddy. 

Malfoy picks a piece of fluff off of his clothes, taking his time to inspect it. He even seems to prolong the way he flicks it away, causing Harry to almost rip out his hair in a lapse of impatience, before finally speaking. 

“Projects, yes. Because I know that you’re a good little pet Gryffindor who likes to save the day and take mercy on us bad guys. And I don’t want to owe you for anything more than I already do. It’s a burden I don’t care to carry.”

He stares at Harry abruptly and without hesitation. Strangely, he also flicks his gaze up and down Harry’s body, just once. Wherever his eyes travel, Harry senses a flutter of his jittery pulse follow. He doesn’t know what it means, but he feels mildly disturbed.

“That’s not what this is,” defends Harry. Something in the other boy's words struck a nerve in him, even though it’s not entirely applicable to this situation. He isn’t lying when he says it’s more than just his admittedly existent Saviour complex. 

“Tell me then, Potter. What is _this_?” responds Malfoy quickly, chucking his own phrase back at him. He finger quotes the latter word with a heavy snort. “From what I’m seeing, it's just _Perfect Potter_ deciding to stick his nose in a place where he thinks he’s necessary. News flash: he’s not.” 

His eyes are glowing, though curiously not as filled with rage as his words. It looks more like a type of desperation, tinged with sadness. He flails his arms once before folding them across his lap. If he thinks it will help him gain composure, they’re long past that stage.

“A bit of gratitude would be nice, maybe,” mutters Harry, ignoring the first part of Malfoy’s question. 

Suddenly, the moon slides into the room. Silver hair is illuminated by the light emerging from the clouds; Malfoy looks otherworldly. “That’s something you’re never getting. Find it somewhere else.”

Harry smiles unhappily. He doesn’t want Malfoy’s appreciation anyway, isn’t sure why he said it.

“Fine,” he sighs, unreluctant to let this path of conversation carry on any further. He lets it die, feeling it float away, though it will probably drift back later. “Anyway if you’re not going to tell Mcgonagall what really happened, you might want to at least assure her this wasn’t some kind of suicidal mission. I think she might start taping up the windows soon, just to make sure you don’t jump out.” 

Inside his chest, his heart beats like an offbeat drum. He doesn’t mean it really, hopes that Malfoy doesn’t hear the question in his tone. 

The following silence eats up his thumping pulse, the only noise he can hear is the ominous melody of nothing. 

“Malfoy?” Harry prods, noticing that the boy has gone glassy. 

It could be the moonlight, or it could be sweat, but his skin has started to shine. He isn’t focusing on Harry anymore, isn’t focusing on anything. There is a veil between them. And he isn’t looking at Harry, but Harry is him. He notices the seconds passing in Malfoy’s expressions. Sees every fleeting emotion, which is only given away by the downturn of his brow.

A few moments after Harry speaks, Malfoy appears to shake himself of whatever thought was on his mind. Harry dreads to know, yet craves it simultaneously. Still facing the window, he frowns, “OK.” 

It’s all he says. Vacant words in a hollow room. After being such a loudmouth, Harry senses that something is wrong- thinks he always sensed it, in a way. He squeezes his hands and eyes, finding his own tension in both. 

There is a question burning in his mouth that he doesn’t want to ask, but it is a poison. And like all poisons, he’ll either have to swallow it down or spit it out.

“Malfoy… please tell me you- that that wasn’t what happened- you didn’t,” he murmurs, unable to open his eyes now, “Did you?”

He is afraid of the answer; hopes that it never comes. 

Malfoy sighs, the life gone out of him. It is a horribly familiar sight. 

“No, Potter. Not quite,” he says. He nibbles his lip again, leaving an indent where it has been continuously repeated. Harry never noticed that was a habit until now. If Malfoy bites even one more time, he could make it bleed. 

Now, a new feeling, half relief and half dreadful anticipation. “What do you mean?” inquires Harry, though he isn’t sure he will be able to digest any response which isn’t just Malfoy calling him an idiot.

“Relax, I didn’t try to off myself. At least not technically,” Malfoy tips his head back, fed up. The words rip into Harry’s stomach. And then Malfoy is deflating, the energy leaving his body once and for all. He whirls around and his eyes are blank. “I think you should go now, Potter. You’ve done your part and I’m unfortunately still here, _alive_.” 

He stands up, straighter and more rigid than usual. Grabbing Harry’s bicep, which sends rippling sensations out from where they make contact, Malfoy pushes him out of his medical bay. He drops Harry’s arm as soon as he deems it far enough away, and gives him a gentle shove in the chest for good measure. 

“Go back to your friends, Potter. Seriously, have you ever considered it’s time to think about doing something else with your life other than obsess over me?” snipes Malfoy. This time he expects it when Malfoy rolls his eyes back deep into his skull. The fact that he predicted the other boy's next action leaves him internally grinning, even amongst the shock waves rolling over him. 

“No?” says Malfoy, “You really should. It can’t be healthy.” 

Before he can process it, Malfoy drags his curtains around his bed and disappears from sight. A clear sign. Well.

Certainly alive, Harry will give him that.

——-

Later, Harry’s brain is in pieces, blown into dozens of shards several times over. After Malfoy’s cryptic and puzzling comments, his mind is reeling with confusion and, most concerningly, worry. Despite the boy's half false assurances that it wasn’t a suicidal incident, there is something amiss. Harry is uneasy.

He thinks of the note, reading ‘ _I don’t hate you’_ , which Malfoy threw at him a week ago. It was probably their best example of communication as of yet. 

This is what he keeps in mind as he scribbles something on a piece of paper haphazardly, his wizarding watch telling him that is three in the morning. The increasingly dark bags under his eyes were already rather telling, thank you.

_I’m glad you’re okay. It’s not a saviour thing. Can’t explain. Was it those boys who attacked you? You don’t have to answer. Sorry. Be safe -H_

_PS. Shut up. I’m not stalking you_

Cringing, he folds it up. It’s not perfect by any standard but it will have to do. 

He runs to the Hospital Wing for the second time in the same day, clumsy and probably spotted at least once. How the Invisibility Cloak is supposed to hide a grown man is beyond him.

The castle is larger than life at night; his bare feet icy cold against the stone floor.

Sneaking into the Hospital Wing the same way he did before, he prepares himself for backlash. He took it earlier, he can take it again. There are too many rogue thoughts buzzing around in his head for him to not vocalise a few of them. Besides, this worked for them last time, in that after the notes came a week-long era of peace.

He slides the note in between the closed curtains, head and heart pounding as one in a way which has nothing to do with his bloodstream. 

As he creeps out of the room, on the lookout from any stray School Nurses, he decides to take a moment to rest against the wall. She hugs him from behind. 

Then, something peculiar grabs his attention. He glances down only to see the same piece of paper being slid between the crack under the door. Dismayed, Harry thinks that maybe Malfoy just returned it without reading. So much for his great plan.

However, he soon gleefully realises that there is a new, graceful handwriting on the other side. Malfoy has written him a note back. 

When he picks it up with a grin, he finds that he isn’t frightened by what could be written on it like he initially thought. It’s only Malfoy. 

He reads it again and again, and savours every word. 

_Firstly, It wasn’t them. Has anyone ever told you that you fuss like an old woman? Merlin. Secondly, I want to stress that what I’m about to do is not about you saving my life, so don’t go getting any idiotic ideas about doing it again._

_Thank you. For checking on me. It was unnecessary, but thanks nonetheless. I apologise if I was a bit coarse earlier. In my defence, you’re insufferable._

_Sincerely, DM_

_PS. I’ll stop thinking that you’re a stalker when you stop stalking me. Honestly, Potter, talk about denial._

Harry walks back to the dormitory with the note clutched tightly in his hand and doesn’t put it down until the next day. Malfoy thanked him, even after saying he would never do such a thing- he can’t believe it. Finally, he feels a sense of progress. 

When his next free moment comes around, Harry practically sprints to sit down at his desk. He grabs the closest piece of paper, not knowing that this would spark what it does, and writes a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: descriptions of a near death experience, multiple mentions of suicide and PTSD/ anxiety attacks
> 
> so..... thoughts???? things WILL eventually come clear i promise but like as if draco will tell everything straight away we just know that boy loves his drama. i honestly wrote the last bit on a high at 3am so is it good? probably not? it’s purely just...maybe our boys are finally deciding to stop being stupid tho <3 also who else loves that draco is literally like you’re stupid and harry is just sitting there, heart eyes about his hair and smooth skin. me too bby me too. also i’m dying over the fact that we’re gonna reach 100k soon and they’re literally only just beginning to get onto speaking terms. talk about slow burn oops sorry baes
> 
> anyway pls pls pls leave comments and kudos and share because i’m not kidding when i say it motivates me so much more when i know people are enjoying it 🥺 thanks bbies

**Author's Note:**

> pls leave comments and kudos thanks for reading :)


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